


Real Good For Free

by BenLMoore, Tanyk (BenLMoore)



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017)
Genre: Age Difference, CPS, Child Protective Services, Child sexuality, Dark subject matter, Drug Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Foster families, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Masturbation, Miserly Oliver, Suicidal Thoughts, musician Elio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:26:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 44,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22104784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenLMoore/pseuds/BenLMoore, https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenLMoore/pseuds/Tanyk
Summary: Miserly business man, Oliver Gelding, needs a new administrative assistant. Against his better judgment, he agrees to interview his former secretary's nephew. One simple choice rearranges his entire life.
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman
Comments: 239
Kudos: 170





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from a Joni Mitchell song.  
> The idea bubbled up when my guy decided to hire a new assistant. What started out as a hot little fantasy turned into... well, this...
> 
> Your comments are always appreciated. Let me know what you think.

Each weekday morning for eleven years, Oliver Gelding has marched from the metro station to his highrise office tenaciously ignoring the same man. Most weekends, too, if he’s honest.

Tattered, grime-smudged clothing. Oliver has never seen a baby - only a filthy stroller heavy-laden with a tent, stacks of blankets and sundry unidentifiable items. The two men might share the same birthday, but the other has aged far less gracefully since his dark-skin has been exposed to summer’s cruelest heat and winter’s harshest winds. Undeterred, the hobo remains committed to his daily renditions of Baptist spirituals faithfully blasted on a trombone. Saint Peter on crack.

As the owner and CEO of his business, (SecuQore Inc.) Gelding might dress however he pleases. Today, he chose a pale-blue button-down shirt (starched rigid), a navy blazer and khaki slacks. Guests to his office are a rarity, but a man is only as smart as his attire.

Before the vagabond, stands his trusty, white five-gallon paint bucket. It’s intended as for donations, but might double as a toilet. Oliver is as likely to toss in his money as to drop his trousers and perch on it. The gestures would be equally humiliating and misguided. Charity is always, only a mistake. You don’t give a man fish, and this individual looks ill-suited to administrative work.

Across the street, pigeons feasting on yesterday's fries. Flying rats. Oliver doesn't give them handouts, either.

In a few weeks, the hornman will start abusing passersby with O Holy Night and Jingle Bells.  
Oliver will consider coming to work earlier, or by some circuitous, music-free route. He’ll Google the cost of renting a helicopter. Ultimately, he’ll suffer, because the train is best, even though he’s traveling from the apartment rather than the house now.

This September morning’s breeze carries This Little Light of Mine. If only the bastard would let it shine elsewhere.

Morning traffic agonizes by, desperate drivers leaning on their own horns. Oliver flows with the tide of commuters and their insulated mugs of liquid vitality. He stuffs in his earbuds, tucks his chin to his chest, manipulates his phone to deliver direct transmission of the morning’s trade report. His shoulders hunch, further protection from the booming melody.

Usually, Oliver passes his nemesis without flicking an eye at the man’s can or his instrument. In his haste, he knocks into a hefty woman who jostles him back. Oliver stumbles and kicks over the makeshift cash register, sending donations clinking and a few lonely dollars flitting down the street. He jogs away, head bowed, heart fluttering arrhythmically.

He enters the building studying his screen rather than echoing the “Good morning” cast at him by the person who stayed the door for him.

She shifts her sensible heels awaiting his gratitude. People who perform meaningless social gestures should not expect constant praise.

He settles behind his U-shaped mahogany desk with his back to the window. Before him, only an iMac and a bottle of hand sanitizer. He begins each morning’s work with ritual cleansing, rubbing the cold, slime between eager fingers, inhaling the comforting sharp antiseptic.

Fifty feet away, to his left is Grace’s desk with her phone and mess. The rest of the space is for storing his product. Technically, against zoning, but Oliver is timely with his lease payment and no one has ever cracked down.

He works for a couple of hours before the door clicks open and Grace enters. A stout woman of approximately 65. Thirteen minutes late.

But the scowl this morning is not for the tardiness. It’s because this could be her last day. An advanced cancer diagnosis.

Half a year ago, when Grace first delivered the news along with two-weeks notice, Oliver had still been living with Anne. His wife had insisted he release the woman immediately, but Anne is no businesswoman. She’s a former barmaid. The only contract she’s ever signed was their marriage license. Since then, she has gleefully accepted Oliver’s support. When the paperwork is done, she’ll merrily take his alimony.

Which is bullshit. A woman spends 12 years on her ass at home. She destroyed the marriage that sustained her and the schmuck husband is forced to continue to pay her way? Where is the logic or the sense?  
Don’t get Oliver started on the injustices of child support.

Repeatedly, he has begged, cajoled and given raises to compel Grace to stay on. Two weeks ago, though, she’d given her soft-soled impression of putting her foot down: a doctor’s letter.

“Morning, boss.” She flashes her dentures (courtesy of overpriced dental insurance)

Oliver nods across the office. Extraneous talk is time wasted.

Grace’s name was always an irony, but since her diagnosis, she has dwindled to a dainty size 18. She drops her considerable bulk into the desk chair, huffs a loud sigh and fires up her computer. Two years ago, after much complaint about her back, Oliver paid (far too much) for that chair. It’s far too cushy for a new employee.

He frowns across the shared 70’x70’ workspace and tries to imagine someone else at Grace’s desk. A new voice asking ridiculous questions about the simplest procedures. A new moron struggling to grasp the significance of the product. If Oliver could dock Grace’s pay for the impropriety of leaving, he’d do it.

Instead, he works through lunch, holding his well-tamed bladder. Every so often, he refuels on encapsulated caffeine.

At ten minutes to 6 PM, his phone buzzes with a text message. Usually, he mutes it. Right now, he pauses his design tweak to picks up the device and turn it off. He sees the message from Anne unintentionally.

\- Remember Grace’s gift!

What gift? Oliver hadn’t…

But Anne had.

The memory slaps him hard enough to elicit a groan.

Six months ago, as he’d packed his shit (Anne’s words) to move out of the house on Baker, his not-soon-enough-to-be ex had calmly reminded him to expect a package - a retirement gift for Grace. Standing here now, it takes another five seconds to remember where he’d stowed it in hopes Grace would never follow through on the threat.

The old sow slings her massive purse over her shoulder. Oliver stands and uses his voice for the first time today.

“Wait.”

The word sounds more like a honk. He clears his throat, repeats the command and his soldier halts, one final time.

He recovers a slender blue box from his top right-hand drawer. Grace grins, holds out both palms like a beggar child and sings, “You shouldn’t have, boss.”

She’s damn right. And Anne shouldn’t have either, but it’s done and likely far too late to return whatever it is.

Oliver watches with curiosity as Grace slides down the silver bow and unveils a stunning diamond bracelet. She gasps, sucking most of the oxygen from the room.

“Oh, boss.”

Oliver holds his breath.

Anne is obviously, clinically insane. Or else this was a final barb on the canine rod she’s been shoving up his asshole for months.

What on God’s gray earth does a 65-year-old retired woman need with jewelry like that?  
That thing cost triple digits, at least. Oliver does a poor job hiding his anguish, but Grace never sees because she’s too entranced with sliding her dazzling finery over her mottled claw onto her flabby wrist.

Oliver frowns and nods. He clasps his hands behind his back to subdue the errant thought.  
There’s no acceptable way to reclaim the present. All he can do is accept it as another public ball-shriveling defeat, administered by his not-soon-enough-to-be ex-wife.

“Oh,” Grace giggles like a girl a tenth of her age. “I almost forgot.”

From her fridge-sized purse, she plucks the almost forgotten and entirely unforgettable plain white envelope. 3x5. Inside, a greeting card with a hand-drawn and unforgivably trite beach scene. Inside, the words:

You Only Live Once

“You’re really too kind, Mr Gelding,” she says.

Oliver grunts and allows himself to be folded into a gut-curdling hug. Something about the thin-fat feel of her body. Still husky under all that loose skin.  
Who knows the last time someone touched him? He hadn’t missed it and this embrace does not rekindle longing. Nodding stupidly, Oliver pulls away and folds his arms.

Since they’re being sentimental, he says, “You know, you’re killing me, right?”

“Sir.”

“I mean, plain and simply, you just are,” Oliver says without altering his posture.

He’s not attacking. He’s being forthright. Honest. It’s one of his strengths. Grace, however, winces and lowers her head. Good. This is good, subordinate behavior.

“How am I supposed to land this federal contract without you?”

“Sir, you flatter me.”

“No, I need you, in this office, doing the part I can’t do.”

“Mr. Gelding.” She finally looks up and sighs. “I am exhausted.”

As she says it, Oliver sees it, for the first time. The dull grey of her eyes, the thinning hair, the perpetual stoop to her shoulders. She wouldn’t be much use to him in this state for long anyway.

“If I could, I would, sir,” Grace says. “Truly.”

She should leave before this becomes more uncomfortable. Oliver shakes his head and steps back, declining to meet her apologetic gaze.

Moments like these shouldn’t be drawn out. He hadn’t bothered with Goodbye before he’d left the house on Baker. He packed his shit (Anne’s words) and left. Anne has since apologized for many, if not all of her evil words and deeds. She has begged Oliver to return and talk.  
But he’s happy - or at least his understanding of that term - alone in the apartment.

It’s a few miles further from the office. It had required him to break the lease and pay the renter a penalty, but it was the best thing he’d done in over a decade. Now, he can work all day and half the night without a single whimper from anyone.

There’s no one to whom he answers. Not god. And as soon as this divorce is complete, not a lawyer.

The state will set up an account and siphon off half his money each month. Who cares? Take one of his balls. In fact, take two. Oliver won’t be using them again. He’d rather blow the back off his own skull than date again.  
Fuck, maybe.  
Sure. Okay.

It’s extreme to think he’ll never get laid again, but not with any prospect of it leading to a “relationship” of any kind. Single night hurrahs from here on out.  
And with whom will those trysts be?  
He’s never swiped, left nor right.  
The mere thought of nameless skanks in public bathroom stalls make him long for a purgative squirt from the Purell.

He looks down and puffs out a long sigh at the likely life of celibacy that lays ahead. Grace is lingering, awaiting the end of his reverie. The woman knows him.

“You do remember your appointment tomorrow morning?” She asks. “9 AM, with my nephew?”

“Why?”

In all these years, he’s never met a member of her family. She might have mentioned children or grandchildren, but he’d paid similar attention to such ramblings as to her belching habit - which had grown especially foul with this most recent round of experimental treatment.

“Because,” Grace says. “He understands the field. He’s not an engineer, but he has technical experience and a young person’s ambition and aptitude. He’ll be perfect for you.”

If Oliver could automate Grace’s job, he’d have done it by now.

This woman knows, better than anyone, what her job requires. She knows this nephew. Oliver lumbers around his desk, scribbles 9 AM on a Post-it which he then sticks to the upper left corner of his screen.

He nods once more. Grace mirrors the gesture and vanishes.

It’ll suck tomorrow, but for now, there’s sweet silence again. He works in contented Flow until a few minutes after 11.

Even then, he only stops because the phone rings.  
Grace’s phone.

There isn’t a phone on his desk, because how can anyone get anything done when people are bombarding you with questions and requests. It’s a wonder he ever reached a proper flow state with that woman in the room chirping away on the phone. But choosing this shared space had saved on rent. He’d invested those savings on yearly improvements on his product - a wise choice that pays off in repeat customers and word of mouth.

The merciless ring from the phone bounces off the glass behind him, shattering the flawless silence.

Groan.

Oliver could go his entire day without talking. That’s what Grace is for.  
He stares at the cursed thing as if daring it to leap from the receiver and crab-scuttle across the floor.

Finally, the caller gives up, or their call goes to voice mail. Whatever happens when the phone silences.

Then, it begins again. On the third attempt, he swears and stands. On the 17th ring, he snatches the phone from the cradle and shouts, “What?”

The biggest curmudgeon in sales knows that’s no way to answer a customer call. It’s not like Oliver has the spectrum to blame for his behavior. At least, he hasn’t been screened. Anne has suggested he might be a touch autistic, but she’s constantly spewing hateful crap like that. Anti-social overachiever doesn’t automatically equal Asperger’s, or whatever the latest diagnostic craze might be.

Oliver squeezes his eyes shut. Before he can launch an apology, Anne chatters back:

“Why aren’t you answering your phone? I knew you’d still be at work. Are you getting any sleep at all, Oliver? You can’t live like this forever, you know? Did you give Grace the present? Liv was waiting to hear from you.”

The litany would have continued if he hadn’t wedged in his word.

“You can tell Liv I already said, no.”

“You need to tell her yourself. Maybe she’ll understand it better from you.”

“Fine. Put her on the phone.”

“Oh, come on, Ollie? Why, no? It’s really not fair.”

"You asked. I answered. Is there something else you want?"

"Oliver." She was quiet for a moment, collecting thoughts he didn't want to hear. "Even if we don’t… I understand why you don't forgive me…All I’m saying, Oliver, is that you don’t have to live like a refugee."

As aggressively as he avoids music, even Oliver knows that’s a fricking Tom Petty song. “I don’t have time for this.”

There used to be a rewarding click and the action of putting down the received when you hung up on someone. Now, touch a button and conversation is over.

Like mother, like brat. All they ever want from him was his money. If Anne’s daughter so desperately wants to go to art camp, she can waste her mother’s alimony - as soon as they tap the IV to Oliver's account.

And for the record, child support isn’t granted on merit or necessity. There’s no reasonable calculation involved. It’s deducted directly from a man’s paycheck, based on his earnings. So, when the proceedings are over, his ex-wife and darling little girl will pocket more of his income than he does.

They have the nerve to call him, at work, to ask for an advance? He huffs like a caged tiger, because caged he is. There’s no way out of it. He could slam down the phone in indignation. He could call Anne the B-word again. The look on her face had been cathartic.

“She just wants to talk to you, Oliver.”

“I’m sure.” She wants to talk about how much her ridiculous camp costs. “I’m working, Anne. Tell her to send an email. I don’t have time for this.”

It’s not a slam, but he puts it down. Firmly. Then, returning to his desk, he purifies his hands, taps his screen and punches in his password, gearing up for a marathon design-tweak session.  
Tomorrow’s going to hurt.


	2. Chapter 2

Oliver makes it home an hour before dawn.

Home is one of those words, like Love or Integrity. It means different things on different days.

This morning, it’s an investment apartment in Bethesda. Professionally decorated with furniture Oliver doesn’t use. Someplace to put his shit. Most of his time is spent in the office anyway.

There’s enough time to collapse, fully dressed on his wrinkled, but still made bed. Three hours later, Oliver wakes, showers and does it all again.

Same walk to the train, although this morning with a weird, but negligible twinge in his left arm. A numbness he’s never felt before. Not pain. Easy to overlook.  
Same brisk steps from the station past that godawful musician. This time Oliver doesn’t kick over the bucket.  
Into the office.  
Okay, so now it’s pain, but not unbearable. He can work through it.  
Enough to wince at, but nothing serious. A cramp close to his shoulder. Must have slept awkwardly.

Two pumps from the sanitizer, rubs his hands together, inhales the alcohol. And rips a pesky orange Post-It note from the bottom of his screen. Balls and tosses it, missing the basket by two feet.

Once Oliver’s computer loads up, it only takes a few minutes before he enters his Flow.

Rudely interrupted at 9:03 with a buzz from below.

The door is like the phone: Grace’s domain. Oliver ignores it for a solid five minutes before he recalls that Grace won’t be in today. Or ever again. Meanwhile, the ringing has become relentless. Mouth flooding with pre-chewed profanity, he sulks to the door and mashes the intercom.

“Who is it?”

Better than last night’s outburst, but not exactly cordial.

“Um…”

Whoever’s on the other side of the intercom is flustered.  
Good. Maybe they’ll go away.

“I, um. I’m … I’m here for the, um… You are hiring, right?”

“Oh, crap.”

The nephew. Right. Of course

Oliver’s hand hovers over the buzzer - inadvertently casting himself into the plausible future where his ass is on the street. This moment could be his undoing. Who hasn’t heard the horror stories about the young upstart who enters the business, learns the basics, makes a minor adjustment to the design, files a new patent…  
It has taken Oliver a decade to compile SecuQore’s database. This boy with his “technical experience, ambition and aptitude” could yank the whole business from under him like a greased rug.

It would be better to hire another crusty old woman with no social media skills and no ambition other than to collect a paycheck and make an admirable cup of coffee.

Another buzz.

“Sir. The door still won’t open,” the nephew says. Then, “Oh, never mind. Someone’s coming in.”

“Shit.”

It’s not too late to lock the office door and hide under his desk. It isn’t dignity, so much as discomfort that keeps him upright. Oliver’s head is starting to hum. He hasn’t had a migraine in years, but the one that’s coming on is a tsunami.

He’s back at his desk, head down, squinting while he types through the throbbing when the door clicks open.

Oliver raises his face and lightening flashes behind his eyes. He squeezes them so tightly that the tear has to ooze between his lashes. New pain. Fierce flame behind his sinus, limbs weak, bowels threatening to hollow themselves.

He stands, starts to keel over, mouth hanging open to ask Grace’s nephew to call an ambulance.

In a flare, it’s gone. The pain, the lethargy, the nausea. Subsided as if they’d never occurred.

If Anne knew about this little episode, she’d insist Oliver make an appointment with his general practitioner (who Oliver hasn’t seen in so many years he can’t remember the guy’s name). She might even try to convince him to sashay over to the emergency room. But only to keep him alive for the alimony. Anne is not here, and Oliver no longer answers to her rule, nor anyone else’s.

“Are you all right, man?”

“Fine. I’m fine.”

He grips the arms of his chair, hoping his legs will lift him. With a deep breath, he stands.  
See? No problems.

Oliver offers his hand for one of those firm shakes Professor Creed taught him. Even when you don’t want to touch the other person. Even when you wish the whole damn conversation was over and that everyone else in the world would do you and favor and die - you shake hands like a man. You smile and introduce yourself like a winner.

The boy on the other side of the desk - because a boy is all he is - returns squish for Oliver’s solid grip. Grace’s nephew shakes hands like the Princess of some annexed territory in Lower WhoGivesACrap. He shakes like he expects Oliver to bend over and kiss his lily-white fingers.

They are remarkably colorless hands, befitting the moon-pale boy. Is he healthy? When Oliver was in Beijing, on days when the UV pierced the smog, the Chinese women treated the sun like the plague. Even they weren’t this pallid.

This kid is white. Caucasian. European-American. Whatever you’re allowed to say these days?  
Avoiding conversation has the added benefit of PC cluelessness.

The boy is white with nearly black hair. Or maybe it is black. Hard to tell under the fluorescent. He’s a study in contrasts: ice-white skin, dark hair, dark clothing. Black. The clothing is indisputably black.  
Or it must have been at first purchase. Now, many wears and (presumable) washes later, his t-shirt (adorned with a marijuana leaf) and the sagging skinny jeans are two of the many shades of grey.   
There’s a tear in one knee. 

Black denim jacket. A small, gold ring in his left nostril.

The lips, though. Pink is a course word that merely describes hue, not texture or Oliver’s instantly overwhelming curiosity. He’s no poet, but god, he can do better than pink.  
Coral? Salmon? Unripe raspberry.  
What a mouth.

A chin like the barb of a heart. A face to inspire art. Unsettlingly angelic despite the ratty clothes and the BO. Yeah, he smells, and not good. Like last week’s tossed out lo mein.

Despite it, the look of this boy turns Oliver’s stomach - sideways, inside out. He might vomit after all.

The boy retracts his mushy hand, draws a black guitar case from his right shoulder and leans the instrument on Oliver’s desk. He cranes his neck, searching the room as if seeking something. Finally, he swipes Grace’s chair, plops down with a grin and rolls across the room, feet shuffling like a small child. He comes to rest at the other side of Oliver’s desk.

Oliver takes his seat and covers his mouth with his fist. Still studying.

The boy is wearing dirty Chuck Taylor’s. His hair might be curly or wavy instead of visibly greasy, if it was ever washed. In fact, the boy might be beautiful.

No. He is. Without equivocation. No soap required.

Oliver is face to face with a very beautiful boy.  
Beautiful is a word like home. Like pink. It introduces a concept without meaning.

Gorgeous is no better. Nor is exquisite.  
Prepossesing, perhaps.

This boy possesses beauty, not in an erotic sense, of course. Oliver’s fascination is strictly scientific. There is something about his carriage. His presence. A boy whose face demands hours of examination to comprehend its symmetry.

People have fawned over Oliver looks all this life. Tall, blonde, well-formed and effortlessly strong. They prattle on about his blue eyes. Oliver never looks twice in the mirror. He’s not ugly. Otherwise, what does it matter?

Then, he encounters a face like this and, for the first time, shares McCartney’s inspiration. Can’t look away, and therefore forces himself to gaze at the cold, grey wall a spell. Oliver sits back, leans an elbow on its rest, comforts his unsteady mind by tracing his index knuckle back and forth across his dry lips.

Can this boy fetch a coffee and make it well? It should be his first task. A test.  
But words are still crowding behind his tongue, clogging his throat, complicating his breathing.

A tight cough doesn’t help.

The twinge is back, but different. In the center of Oliver’s chest and more like a vacuum than pain. He knows this boy. And, of course, he doesn’t.

The kid gazes around the office, posture slack and unforgivably unprofessional, like his clothes and hygiene. Forget cologne. Deodorant has no place in this kid’s life. Even the earthy stink of unwashed human male is not as offensive as it should be.

“What is it exactly you do here?” the kid finally asks long after Oliver has given up on speaking.

The question helps. He swallows the stupidity lodged in his trachea and starts fresh.

“You’re here for the interview?”

“Sure.” The kid smirks like the joke inside his head will never face the light of day.

“You’re Grace’s nephew.”

No reply. Just that expression. And then, a cigarette produced as if from thin air and deftly popped between those lips.

“It’s cool if I smoke here, right?”

“No. It’s not cool. It’s not allowed anywhere in this building.”

“Is that a joke?” the kid asks. “I promise you 89% of architects smoke. Very stressful career path.”

“Is that a real statistic?”

The boy shrugs and flings his hands like the devil may care but he doesn’t give a shit. He pats his pocketless shirt as if searching for a lighter.

“You got a match, man?”

“You can’t smoke in here,” Oliver repeats.

“You got that written down somewhere? Like, leasing bylaws or something?”

“What? No. Just… How about we complete the interview and you can go outside to the designated a smoking area.”

“So, this is apartheid?” The kid crosses his legs, rests an elbow on his knee and takes out his cigarette to shake it menacingly.

“Would you like to smoke and then come back?”

“It’s fucking discrimination, man. There should be laws to protect people—”

“The law dictates that you may not smoke inside this building.”

The kid sticks his smoke back so that it bobs when he says, “Well, it’s oppression. That’s all I’m saying.”

Oliver blinks, unable to form a rational counterargument.

“Well, tell me about this job, then.”

Somewhere on Grace’s desk, there must be a resume for this joker. 185 IQ? Graduated top of his class from MIT? There must be some clear reason she sent this underage chump. A practical joke? Freaky singing telegram? Is he going to pull out the guitar and start playing Feliz Navidad, which Grace knows is Oliver’s least favorite song in the cosmos.

While Oliver waits for it, the boy adjusts his position. Uncrosses, sits wide-legged, as if there’s something in the crotch of those faded jeans Oliver ought to know about. Stubbornly, the man maintains a disinterested gaze on the equally troublesome face.

The kid pulls the guitar case close.  
Here it comes.

But the boy just slings an arm around his instrument’s neck as if it were a drunk and unconscious girlfriend.

Oliver asks, “Did you bring a copy of your CV?”

“What?”

“Your resume.”

The kid scratches his oily hair and doesn’t answer.  
And now, only because he’s Grace’s nephew and because she seemed so sure, Oliver pulls a yellow legal pad from his top drawer and uncovers a fresh sheet. He selects a pencil from the holder and jams it in the electric sharpener. The kid flinches away from the grating noise.

“Okay,” Oliver says. “Let’s start with your name.”

“What do you want to call me?”

“Your name.”

The kid snickers and answers, “Elio.”

When Oliver only stares, he continues,

“E…”

“Yeah.” Oliver writes and requests his family name.

That earns a scoff, followed by the reply, “Perlman.”

A good Jewish name. Perlman. Not Elio. That’s Latin derivative. Roman, as in helium or Helios, the god of the sun. Or else, Eliot. Elijah. The holy man.

Oliver’s tongue is parched now. He wipes his lips with back of his hands as if he’d had the drink he craves. There were times over the years when Oliver would think of food and Grace would suggest she run for hoagies. Elio Perlman doesn’t receive the subliminal message of Oliver’s thirst, or else he disregards it.  
Could you train someone to have that skill? Is it learnable?  
At Elio’s age, maybe.

“How old are you?”

“19,” he says with inexplicable pride and although he looks younger.

Nineteen was a particularly shitty age for Oliver: multiple evictions and an intentional 3-night prison stay because he’d aged out of juvie. But for some people it’s undoubtedly a number to smile about. Oliver is counting the ways this kid won’t work for this job.

“Do you have any experience in clerical work, Elio?”

He chuckles. “What is that even?”

Oliver squints. It’s a gag. It has to be. Are there hidden cameras? No plants for a cameraman to hide behind, but they might have mounted them in the smoke detector. That’s the only plausible way this ends.

“How old are you?” Elio asks, left hand falling lazily between his legs.

The cigarette has vanished again. No. It’s behind his ear.

Oliver could ask him to leave, but why not go along with it? It’ll end soon and they’ll have a laugh. They will. He despises this sort of thing. Surprises. Practical jokes. Come to think of it, Anne must have hired this kid, to get under his skin.

“What are you, 40? 45?”

Play along, and make it end.

“I’m 48.”

“Damn, seriously. Time waiteth not.”

Oliver squints again, trying to place the quote.

“What, do they keep you in formaldehyde? You still look good.”

Clearly, Elio intends this as a compliment, but expressing gratitude is pointless. Oliver runs a fingertip over his brow and avoids the boy’s gaze.

“I mean, like, damn, man.”

When Elio scratches his crotch, the joke descends from annoying to unpleasant. Heat rises from Oliver’s collar to his ears. He’s still tan enough from the summer’s solo hikes that it might not be visible, but he hates the sensation regardless.

“I think I’ve got what I need, Mr. Perlman.”

“You sure?”

The kid unzips his instrument case. The grand finale, huh? No way. Whatever this is, it’s over.

“Close the door on your way out. Please?”

“That’s it?” Elio asks as he stands.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“So, when do I start?”

“I’ll have my secretary call you.”

“Cool.” Elio slings his case onto his back before offering another soft shake.

Oliver nods but refuses to touch the boy again. He plasters on a zirconium smile. “Have a nice day, Mr. Perlman.”

The kid wanders toward the boxes piled neatly along the wall.

“Do not touch those!”

Elio throws up his hands and Oliver watches like security, satisfying quiet curiosity about the boy’s ass. Skinny, like the rest of him. Elio flips the peace sign as he goes. Or Victory? He slides through the door as slick as water off an otter’s belly.

“What the fuck was that?”

Oliver shakes off the oddity, and purifies his hands before getting back to work.


	3. Chapter 3

SecuQorp will have to survive without an admin.

Another interview would be unbearable.Oliver could hire a headhunter, but that would require interviewing the head hunters.

No.

He flushes his brain of the ridiculous encounter with that boy. Rips the phone cable from the wall jack. Ignore e-messages and just focuses on the product. 

It’s well after 3AM when he leaves the office. Tomorrow, he'll bring a sleeping bag.If no one else is there, what reason to shower?

When the brisk wind on the other side of the glass door smacks Oliver's face, he folds his arms over his blazer, head down, shoulders hunched against the chill. As he’s making his way down the street, the soft, unmistakable strains of acoustic guitar split the silence. Oliver stills his feet for a moment to listen.

He needs to call a cab and get home. Against his better judgment, he follows the sound.

Sure enough, and as expected, there's a man hunched over a classical guitar, his back to a brick wall, soft case closed on the side walk in front of him. The musician’s head is hung so far forward that his dark hair obscures his face. He doesn't acknowledge his one-man audience remaining at a safe, imperceptible distance.

After a moment, Oliver creeps away, treading softly, willing his soles not to clack against the pavement. His retreat beats rhythmless against the baroque melody that chases him all the way to the street.

No chance that was Grace’s nephew. Just an uncanny coincidence.

***

The goal is to retrieve this file and leave. Oliver enters the house, types in the four-digit security code and creeps down the hall like an expert burglar. Anne is on the sofa, tucked under Chambers’ arm, watching TV. Oliver’s sofa. Oliver’s television. Oliver’s wife. Ex cuddled up with their daughter's seventh-grade history teacher.

Chambers probably sleeps in Oliver's bed now. What difference does that make, when he’s been fucking Anne for a year? Or more. Who knows? Who cares? Chambers playing daddy to Oliver’s kid. Smells like they had Italian for dinner.

Oliver hasn’t eaten anything but caffeine in days. He might have popped a handful of trail mix here and there.

He doesn’t speak a word. Slides right past them to his office and gets his file. Liv is in her bedroom. Reading. Hair looks longer. Or did she get it cut? Not sure.

Baby Olivia was cute and plump. Oliver had held her as litle as possible, to avoid breaking anything. The moment she learned to speak, their relationship began an unobstructed downhill slide.

To hell with them all.

***

Another peaceful day at the office. Except that he forgot the sleeping bag. Could lay his head on the desk, but decides to return to the apartment. When he leaves the building, it’s there again:

the music. Guitar. This time, more of a flamenco style. That's a guess. How the hell should he know?

What Oliver knows is that the fall chill has become a bitter cold tonight. Arctic front blowing in. Meteorologists tossing around terms like Snowmegeddon between the stock reports. The air still bites his ears and the tip of his nose.

The player’s back is to the brick wall, guitar case open on the sidewalk. He’s not playing in the shadows tonight. A few feet closer to a streetlamp. Head cocked rather than bowed. Amber eyes shut. A small smile playing on coral lips. Grace’s nephew.

Elio.

Does Grace know that the boy busks on the street at all hours of the night? Is this why she was trying to get him a real job? Well, SecuQorp is a business, not a charity. Oliver Gelding does not do hand outs, on principle. Handouts benefit no one.

He passes in silence, not giving a rip whether his soles clack or not.

***

On the third night, a cruel gale is blustering the first flakes around the plaza outside of Oliver’s building. Forecast for the season's first snow coming true. He’s got his work laptop, in case he has to work from the apartment.

The guitar music swells up for only a moment before a small brigade of caterwauling teens turns the corner behind him. For a breif moment, Oliver’s blood floods hot with adrenaline. He’s tall and broad enough to never have been mugged, but there’s a first time for everything in the nation’s rapidly gentrifying capital.

The boys pass without acknoweldging his existence. They do, however, stop in front of the guitarman. Boy. Elio’s no older than any one of them.

Six young hoodlums out past midnight. Super predators. Oliver knows the type. There ought to be a curfew in this town. All the homocides and the street violence. 

Oliver’s pulse is thudding in his teeth now. Six against one scrawny kid. Would Elio use his guitar to defend himself? It might give him an edge. If he’s lucky, they’ll just snatch his guitar case, take his money and not thrash him.

It’s not Oliver’s business. This is nature following its course. He doesn’t know this kid. He doesn’t like jazz music and that’s what Elio is playing, while a pack of hyenas surrounds him. His fingers fly on, notes ringing out in the dark and cold.

Oliver is not going to stand here and watch the massacre. At least he doesn’t intend to. He’s certainly not one of these “local heroes” who whips out his cell phone in time to capture the attack on film. So why in hell is he still standing here?

Because he is shoes are glued to the ground while he watches the thugs watch Elio.

They’d halted to listen. They’ve quit their lilted yapping and just listen.And for the first time, so does Oliver.

He stops grumbling to himself and takes in the music.

He wouldn’t know the term backbeat or syncopation, but he feels it, just like those street kids do. They nod to the rhythm. One of them does a wild dance. Oliver is frozen to his bones until the song ends. The gang gives a rousing, hooting applause and leave.

Oliver's mind fills with an unfamiliar urge. He wants to shake it off but can’t. So, he does the unthinkable: pulls his wallet from his pocket and peels out a one-dollar bill. 

Insufficient.

After a bit of internal bickering, he settles on a twenty. If Elio blows it all on booze, Oliver can’t control that. Usually, he doesn’t do charity. He does not work his ass off to fuel someone else’s bad habits. Maybe the goddamned holiday spirit has possessed him. Maybe the moon is full. behind the clouds. Whatever the reason, Oliver crosses the plaza and drops his donation into the case.

The music stops. Elio picks up the cash, balls it up and tosses it away. Then, he starts to play again as if he'd never stopped.

Ungrateful little shit.

Oliver turns, picks up his money. After three hard steps away, the wind slaps him like a spurned lover.

Not his problem.

It’s cold, but the kid will be fine. These street people have a way of surviving.

Without a hat. Without a proper coat. Fingerless gloves around hands that somehow still play dance despite the harsh weather.

Oliver stops. Curses himself. Curses Grace for not answering her phone. He calls her twice, leaves a message on the third attempt.

“Your nephew is out here,” he spits the word between gritted teeth. “Did you know that?”

She must know. A boy this beautiful and talented must belong to someone.

More grumbled profanity.

Oliver curses the last remaining shreds of human decency that force him to return to Elio Perlman and ask, “Do you have someplace to go?”

No one else is around, but Elio continues paying for another five minutes before he looks up and sniffs. Oliver doesn’t clap, but the kid nods, as if receiving accolades from an adoring crowd.

Now that the song has died down, there's only the howling wind and a soft twang as the boy tunes his guitar.

“It’s going to storm tonight,” Oliver says. “Do you have someplace?”

Elio doesn’t even bother to look up. He’s studying his strings when he replies, ”Sure, handsome. Let's do it."


	4. Chapter 4

  
The original plan is derailed. Grace’s nephew, her problem. Only, when Oliver asks for her address, Elio shrugs. 

“Come on. You have to know.”

“No idea, man.”

Somewhere in Silver Spring, isn’t it? Then again, Silver Spring is the town that swallowed the DC northern suburb. She could be anywhere and her number isn’t in his phone. Why should it be? Anne and Liv are the only people who ever call him and he’d considered blocking them. 

Sucking his teeth, Oliver texts his ex-wife for Grace’s address. No reply. Anne doesn’t answer three calls in a row.

“I can get out here,” Elio offers.

“No. No, it’s fine. Just… ”

Grace needs to answer her GD phone. Oliver shoves the phone into his pocket after the twelfth attempt. Not a single one of the MF hotels they pass flashes a Vacancy sign. 

Since it was far too late/early for the metro, Oliver had ordered an Uber. Now he’s in the back of this sedan with his knees jammed against the driver’s seat. Beside him, roosts his latest, smelliest mistake.

Elio’s guitar case rests between his legs as he nods along to the Middle Eastern (or whatever it is) noise from the stereo. Oliver faces the door, breathing only through his mouth. Still, his tongue picks up the driver’s exotic spicy effusions along with Elio’s musk and a distinct touch of whiskey. So, the boy’s a drunk.

If that’s the least of his bad habits, there’s less concern about him letting in a band of hooligans to slit Oliver's throat and steal the last fistful of cash from his wallet in the night. 

He glances from the corner of his eye, sees only Elio’s knees - wide with the guitar between. The kid is humming along now like he’s known the song all his life. If you can call it a song. A lot of wailing and strange sounds.

It’s not too late to have the driver reroute to the nearest homeless shelter, but those usually have hours and restrictions. Oliver’s mistake. He’s made someone else’s problem his own.

  
***

In the elevator, Elio pulls a pack cigarettes from his jacket pocket. 

"No," Oliver says. "Just no."

His key turns in the doorknob kicking the motion detector into gear. Let there be light. Elio sees that it’s good and hums his appreciation.

“Wow, man. What do you sell?”

The first time Oliver entered a foster home, his jaw had dropped nearly to his chin at the — everything. To go from being homeschooled in an RV to living in a single-family home was like entering a new reality. Public school was equally strange and the curriculum oddly slow and dull. Right up until Joe died, Oliver had been given free rein to steal, read and learn from whatever book he wanted. It didn’t take very long to learn that’s not the way the rest of the world works.

By the time Oliver neatly places his shoes on the rack and hangs his coat in the closet, Elio has run his grubby hands over every single surface in the place. A deep sanitizing will be required as soon as this nightmare ends. One night on the sofa - and he's out of here.

“Damn, man this place is hella tight.”

Oliver purses his lips at the slang and watches the young man continue to contaminate his carpet and furniture with street germs.

“Can you…”

Oliver clears his throat, eyes Elio’s shoes and nods towards the foyer. To his credit, the kid takes the hint. Once shoeless, he wanders into the kitchen and begins poring inside cabinets like the grubbiest health inspector.

“I’ll keep trying to call your aunt,” Olive assures himself. “In the meantime, if you... You can take a shower and I’ll put your clothing in the wash.”

Elio stops his investigation and grins across the breakfast island. “You saying I stink?”

“I’m offering to wash your clothes. When’s the last time that happened?”

The grin slants into a smirk as Elio peels off his black denim jacket and hurls it. Oliver’s arms fly up to catch it more from instinct than play. This threadbare thing was all Elio was wearing over that T-shirt. He’d have become an iceberg with popsicle fingers around the neck of a guitar.

This is the right decent thing to do. If God were real, He’d be proud. Nevertheless, Oliver runs down the list of all that could go wrong as he carts the pile of rank clothes from the floor outside the bathroom door to the laundry room.

It’s nearly half an hour later when Elio finds Oliver in his study. The boy stands at the door with his hands on either side of the frame, waiting to be noticed. 

In his glasses, reviewing the day’s headlines on his phone, Oliver prides himself on not looking. Until he does. 

“Take that off.”

Elio is wearing one of Olivia’s sundresses. White with orange daisies. Who knows where he dug it up?  
A thousand miles of thin, paper-pale thighs, knobby knees, slender calves stretching down to bare feet. His wet hair hangs over his eyes, honey-colored eyes peering between the strands. 

Oliver diverts his eyes back to the blurry screen in his hands. “I said take it off. Now.”

“Whatever,” Elio says. “Some guys like it.”

Oliver makes the fresh mistake of peeking up just briefly enough to watch one sharp alabaster shoulder shrugging out of the material. The other arm is partially sleeved in tattoo ink. Oliver makes out a Dali-inspired dripping clock and a deep-purple tentacle before he diverts his gaze as if a young woman were undressing. Olivia’s dress falls in a puddle where Elio drops it.

“Go into the master bedroom and find something else.”

Elio chuckles. “Your clothes are not going to fit me, man.”

“Yours will be done soon. Just... stay in there until—“

“You that scared of a little skin?”

By the time Oliver senses how close he is, it’s too late. Elio sinks onto the sofa beside him and the goose flesh erupts all over Oliver’s back. A hand lands on his knee and Oliver leaps to his feet as if he’s teleported.

“Come on, man,” Elio says, tracking Oliver’s antsy movements across the room. “That’s not what you want?”

Oliver’s paltry head shaking doesn’t even convince him. It’s no wonder Elio laughs. No surprise when he stands and skulks his bone-white and bare body until he’s standing in front of his host, long fingers splayed on Oliver’s chest.

“Nothing to be scared of.”

“I don’t--”

Now he smells like the coconut and verbena shampoo the tenant left behind. Sharp, yet subtle sweetness. Oliver had never touched the stuff. Maybe should have thrown it out.

He grips thin wrists and firmly removes Elio’s hands. Engaging super-human self-control, he strolls from the room. 

“Yeah right. I know you, man.” Elio pursues him down the hall back into the living room. “I know the type. Upstanding citizen, family man. Own that business. Maybe hold public office or something. Real straight arrow.” 

Oliver helps himself to a beer from the fridge. His mouth and throat are parched. Except for the politics, Elio has him pegged. 

“How many runaways you pick up and fuck on the side of the road?”

Oliver shakes his head, bile rising and coating his tongue. He puts down the can before he’s even opened it. 

“Is it a weekly habit?”

“I don’t —“

“Like hell, you don’t. I wouldn’t be surprised if you aren’t the kind of sick fuck who chops them up afterwards.”

Oliver winces at the suddenly crystal clear image of himself digging in the dead of night. Muscles burning from the exertion. Ears ringing. Little white puffs of breath hanging on the air as he piles on the last layer of dirt.

“That’s not—“

“So, you never screwed some helpless little waif?” Elio shuts up his hateful speech and waits for the answer.

Oliver has every right to remain silent. His chest heaves. He doesn’t speak. 

Once.  
He’d only done something like that once.

The kid had approached and asked for money while he was pumping gas, minding his own business. A fairly pretty boy with greasy mud-orange hair and acne on both cheeks. 16 or so. Wild eyes darting back and forth like a rabbit with a hawk on his tail. 

Oliver had shooed him away. He doesn’t do charity.

Undeterred, the boy had offered - pretty much what Elio is offering now.

A buzzer went off behind Oliver’s eyes. Time stood still. When it jumped back into motion, his pants were around his ankles. The boy was kneeling on a scuzzy motel room carpet beside a cruddy mattress. 

He’d had to palm the kid’s forehead, smack him a bit harder than intended to make the pawing and slurping end. Oliver mumbled apologies and scurried from the room like a roach, holding his pants together - not stopping to zip and button properly. He’d lost a perfectly good leather belt that day. And a healthy portion of his dignity.

Once and never since.

He doesn’t look at them anymore. Young boys. He hardly looks anyone in the eye. He keeps his head down and gets his work done.

Elio plops his naked ass on the sofa, striking a stark contrast of chalk-white skin against the sable Italian leather. His ankles cross on the custom-made coffee table, fingers fold over his belly. “Fine. What’s to eat around here?” 


	5. Chapter 5

According to Doctor Vitale, writing a letter every day is supposed to make Liv feel like he’s here. 

Dear Daddy,

She does her best most days, but the thing is, it’s bullshit.   
He doesn’t answer because he's not here.

She tosses her journal across the room and drops her face onto her pillow. Better if it would swallow her up and let her die. Not that her dad is dead. That's the thing that makes it so hard. He's here in this city. So close. And so far away, he might as well be in another universe.


	6. Chapter 6

You would think the kid was allergic to clothes. 

“Would you put something on?”

“Take it off. Put it on. What do you want from me, man?” 

The words are petulant, but Elio's smirking like nothing gives him greater pleasure than to burrow under Oliver’s skin, like a weevil. He disappears for a moment and returns in one of Oliver’s college tees. It fits him like a frock, skimming the middle of this slim thighs. Oliver does not comment.

“Seriously, man. What do you have to eat around here?”

Oliver has already done a preliminary review of his cupboard’s contents. Prospects are bleak. 

“Let’s order Chinese.”

“If you hadn’t noticed, there’s a blizzard going on out there”

Elio saunters over to the window and peeks between the blinds. He shrugs. “Not our problem. They’re the ones who have to get here.”

“I’ll make something,” Oliver says. “Can you just shut up?”

“That’s fucking rude,” Elio says and busies himself scouring and scanning the bookshelves. "You read all these?"

Odd how in just a matter of hours, it feels like this annoying runt has been here forever, gently driving Oliver up the wall and across the ceiling. 

“Do you seriously have no music? No CDs, no nothing?”  
Oliver ignores the question. Elio can see for himself that there’s no music in this apartment.   
Elio also has a superpower: he creates music.

Not like a fireside strum. Kum Ba Yah or some crap.   
He takes out his guitar and what he plays is meaningful and mysterious. Like walking through the forest at night. 

Oliver stands over the half dehydrated onion and collection of cans waiting for his own inspiration to take hold. 

Thirty minutes later, they sit across from each other at the table. Oliver wasn’t hungry, to begin with. Now, he sates himself with watching Elio lick red sauce from his pink lips. The boy peeks up through his lashes and grins.

Oliver drops his gaze to his plate and uses his fork to shift the mushrooms from one side to the other. 

“So, what’s with the music?”

It’s not a question. It’s a desperate attempt not to get swallowed up in the sound of Elio’s appreciative hums.

“What does that even mean?” Elio asks with his mouth full. 

“Did you study or—“

Elio shakes his head, shovels in more food as if that’s the end of it. 

“Well, you’re… you’re very good.”

Elio nods and keeps eating. 

“So do you… are you planning on making a career of it or anything? I mean, you’re good enough.”

“How would you know? You don’t listen to music.”

Oliver scratches his head. “Yeah.”

“I don’t exchange money for music. That way it stays pure.” Elio nods to himself. “I’m more of a… freelance.”

No further details required or desired. 

“Do you live anywhere?”

Elio finishes what’s on his plate and adds another helping before he answers. “There’s this guy, Gideon, I mostly stay with. We had a kind of falling out, so… I’m kind of roughing it right now.”

Oliver nods. 

“You jealous?”

“What? Why would I be…”

But the fact is, his chest tightens at the sound of Gideon’s name. Another man taking care of Elio feels wrong. And thinking that feels ridiculous. When Elio finishes, Oliver leaves the table, collecting both plates on his way to the sink.

Oliver’s scrubbing the dishes, silently berating himself when Elio steps behind him, slips an arm around his waist and nuzzles Oliver’s arm. He doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t try to subdue the loud clatter of his pulse. Casually finishes his task and extricates himself from the boy’s grip, grabbing that beer he'd been forced to abandon earlier - now lukewarm.

Elio doesn’t complain about the rejection. He leans back against the counter, folds his arms and asks, “Where’d you get that recipe?”  
  
To tell or not to tell? Even Anne doesn’t know much about Joe. It's not something Oliver talks about. Who would listen? Who gives a crap?

“I never ate anything like that.”

“No, I’ll bet you never have.” It’s Oliver’s turn to smile to himself. 

It wasn’t a recipe so much as a way of life. His Granpa, Joe, could turn anything into good eats. Koren war vet. Always said a man had to be able to make do.

Elio grins as Oliver confesses facts no one else knows. About how his mom died and left him with no one in the world but his slightly unhinged grandfather. About how the first 11 years of his life were spent crisscrossing the country in an RV. About how his first years of education consisted of falsifying documents so he could checks books out of libraries in any county. And then reading those books. And then, discarding his treasures because when you live in an RV you aren't allowed to own much more than a second pair of Underoos.

It’s clear why they call it verbal diahrrea. Once the first word falls out, he couldn’t keep the rest back no matter how he clenched his lips. The story wants telling and Elio doesn't even interrupt with a question.

Maybe it’s so easy to tell him these things because he’s nobody. Why should Oliver care what this boy thinks of his upbringing and his out-of-wedlock teenage mother’s postpartum suicide? Who is he to judge?   
That must be why.

When Oliver’s guts are good and spilled, he's empty. Lighter. Slumps at the table, wallowing in the facts of his life while Elio picks up his guitar and works a miracle that sounds strangely like Joe. Music that makes it feel like the old man is in the room instead of a pauper's grave in Baltimore. 

The music dies. Elio slides his guitar into its case and asks about his clothes. That simple request breaks Oliver’s reverie and brings him back to the real world. Elio dresses and slings one strap of his guitar case over a shoulder. 

“All right, well, this has been cozy and all, but if we’re not going to fuck, I got to go.”

Oliver’s eyes are as wide as Elio’s when he blocks the boy’s way. Not that he’d physically stop him from leaving. Just, the whole exit is so abrupt and it’s still snowing like mad out there. It must be about zero visibility and -20 degrees with the wind chill. 

“Listen,” he says, intentionally keeping his voice low - tamping down the urgent swell racing through his veins. “Why don’t you wait until this stops? Let them clear the streets.”

Elio freezes for a second. All he’d have to do is say, “excuse me.” Or outright demand that Oliver step aside. Instead, he lets the guitar case slip softly to the floor. 

“Fine. If I stay, what are we going to do?”


	7. Chapter 7

The furniture is already gone. With all of the products bubble-wrapped, loaded, packed into the back of the truck, the movers extinguish the lights in SequCorp's Connecticut Avenue office for the last time.


	8. Chapter 8

ANNE: You need to come back to us. Oliver, please.

He deletes the message and blocks her number.

What he needs is a better divorce lawyer. The woman is a leech. All she ever wanted from him was money.

What Oliver needs is to get back to work. But there’s this GD storm blowing snow across his fourth-floor window so wildly that all he can see is white. The electricity failed shortly after the meal. There may be candles but Oliver doesn’t know where they are. He’s not going to call Anne and ask.All he can do is sit on the floor in front of the sofa and play Elio’s game.

The kid is clad in his own clothes, cleaner, but no less dingy. His feet are in Oliver’s lap. Now and again he goes on an expedition, searching out trouble. Oliver pretends not to notice that he’s hard. His eyes are closed so he can focus on the words and not the long toes kneading his balls.

Elio has a stack of books behind him. Oliver has earned two so far.

Elio randomly opens and reads from a third:

_“The following week, prey to a state closer to confusion than joy, I passed by the animal shelter to pick up the cat the printers had given me. I have very bad chemistry with animals, just as I do with children before they begin to speak. They seem mute in their souls. I don't hate them, but I can't tolerate them, because I never learned to deal with them. I think it is against nature for a man to get along better with his dog than he does with his wife, to teach it to eat and defecate on schedule, to answer his questions and share his sorrows. But not picking up the typographer's cat would have been an insult."_

Elio closes the book and waits. Certain he's finally stumped his contestant. 

Oliver repeats the words to himself. Savors their flavor, the meaning, the tone. As if pearls from a conversation once held with a dear friend. 

"Mmmm. Spanish guy," Oliver says. "No. Columbian. Marquez. Gabriel Garcia'. Memories of my Melancholy Whores."

Elio flashes that proud grin and hands over his prize. “You’ve seriously read every book in this place?”

“Not every book.”

Most of the books. They were the first thing he brought when he moved back into the apartment. The only things that mattered.

“Should I do another one?” Elio asks.

“If you like.”

They do six more. Elio likes this game. Oliver enjoys amusing him. He’s falling into Elio's amazed little smile that comes every time Oliver correctly identifies the title and author and sometimes the publishing company.

But Elio bores quickly, puts the last book aside and crawls toward him.

That’s Oliver’s cue to stand and stretch his hands to the ceiling. Elio lands in the spot he just abandoned with a sigh.

“Don’t you want to kiss me or anything?”

Oliver’s back is to him. Oh, he wants. Sure. He scratches his head, swallows nothing and asks, “So, did you grow up around here?”

“Yeah.” It’s more of a concession than an answer.

“Where’d you go to high school?”

“Blair, mostly. Springbrook, Paint Branch. I was kind of doing the tour.”

“So, you graduated, what… a year ago, or two?” A peek through the blinds reveals no change. They’re getting good and snowed in.

“Nah, I didn’t… It just got old, man.” Elio runs his fingers through his hair and lets it fall in a perfect, probably so-silky mess. “Look, if you’re not—”

“Why don’t you teach me something? On the guitar.”

It’s a hail Mary. A long shot. Oliver lobbed it sloppily, but Elio picks it up. Plucks his instrument from its case, caresses the curve of its body before he asks, “You ever play?”

Oliver shakes his head and sits, humbled by the desperation.

If Elio leaves, he’ll be alone.

Solitude has never bothered him before. In fact, it’s always been a solace. A preference. This, being sequestered with Elio, is a peculiar sanctuary he couldn’t stand to break.

“You know how to hold it, though, right?”

Kind of. Elio made a few minor adjustments to Oliver’s arms and hands.

“All right. Start by just moving your hands around, up and down her neck. Get a feel for how she’s built.”

“A her, huh?”

“Of course. Don’t you see her?”

‘She’ looks like a hunk of wood with wires attached, but Oliver doesn’t say so. He slides his hands up and down, trying to humor his teacher.

“Let’s start with a melody. What’s your favorite song?”

A shake of the head indicates how far afield from his world the question is.

“Okay, then, let’s start with something simple.” Elio hums Twinkle Twinkle. Or the ABCs. Something like that. “Play around until you find this note.”

Oliver squeezes and plucks and grimaces as he listens between Elio’s hummed tone and the scratchy, squeaky painful sounds he’s making. After about twenty seconds, he shoves the thing away from himself. “Forget it. I suck.”

“Yeah, me too,” Elio says. “I’m told I’m good at it.”

Oliver scratches his forehead, looks away. The kid laughs. It’s good sport flustering old men.  
He hums again, that same melody while plucking it on the guitar. Show off.  
All at once, the song begins to blossom into something else. Something more. Elio never once drops his eyes as he hums. Sometimes he matches the exact tones on the instruments. Sometimes, he embellishes them with a flourish or a strum. Oliver’s entire body thrums with a soothing like nothing he remembers. Never had mother's lullabies. Joe was no singer. That thing about music and the savage breast has never been more true.  
Before the song feels over, it ends. Elio puts down the guitar. “Let’s fuck, man. Come on.”

“Are you always so coarse?"

"I'm fucking horny, man."

"Would you lay off? I don’t — Elio, that’s not what I want.”

“God, why are you so boring?” The kid casts himself back against the sofa - a toddler's performance art. Then he hops to his feet. “Fine.”

Watching Elio’s long march to the door carries the same sorrowful fear as when that stray pup you’ve brought in, fed and fallen in love howls its preference for freedom. The only reason

Oliver doesn’t bind the boy to a chair is that he leaves without his guitar. Without his shoes. He'll be back.

Oliver sits stock still, wallowing in his empty before inspiration guides him to the window. Amidst the blustering and white there's an occasional dark spark of motion. Twenty minutes later, a snow-covered boy shivers in his foyer, cackling, teeth chattering as Oliver peels him from his sopping clothes and rough-rubs him dry with a downy towel. He starts at the ankles, with a vigorous technique intended to bring the circulation back to his blueing extremities.

“You little maniac,” Oliver says between his own titters.

Elio’s got to have some new things. Better clothes, winter gear. When the weather clears, they’ll make a spree of it. Oliver only pats the kid’s sorely contracted genitals and behind. Gives his arms the same thorough once-over before fluffing his hair and draping the towel over his shoulders.

“Holy fuck.” Elio’s quivering hard enough to rattle his bones apart.

It grows so severe that he hunches forward like an old woman searching for quarters. Oliver lifts and carries him like a newlywed a princess to the master bedroom. Every wilderness man worth his salt knows the remedy for hypothermia. Ol’ Joe had filled young Ollie’s head with all sorts of dire scenarios and makeshift solutions no one uses in the real world. The moral was always: Be Prepared.

He places the quaking kid on his bed and strips to his boxers, reminding himself that this is a Samaritan’s deed. Recites the Hippocratic oath to himself before he climbs in, pulls up the comforter and wraps himself around the trembling child.

“You’re all right.”

Elio groans. Skin feels like he’s formed fully from ice.

“It’s all right, Elio. I’ve got you.”

Oliver’s hand rests on a razor-thin hip bone. Trying to hold him still. He hasn’t lain like this with anyone in years. Somehow, with Anne, with the girls before her, it was never like this. Never so pure and simple. He burrows his face in damp hair. Placing a kiss, warmed by the blaze in his chest. Easy, senseless tenderness.  
Elio shivers in his sleep and Oliver draws him closer than close. Would absorb him if that would help. If it would keep him safe and warm from the bitter world.

Hours later, Elio jackknifes into an upright position. His pillow is sweat-soaked. “Shit. Fuck. Oh, God.”

“What is it?”

Oliver sits up more slowly and watches the boy scurry to the bathroom, clutching his gut. Elio doesn’t manage to close the door, so the sound of his wretching travels right to Oliver’s brain, nearly contagious. Was it the food? One of the cans was a month past expired. His fault. Of course, it was.

Elio stumbles to the door, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. If possible, even more pallid than before. “Shit, I told you I needed to go, man.”  
Oliver makes his way toward the sickling. “Do you need—“

“No. Fuck you. I got to go.”

“Elio, let me—“

The kid’s shove isn’t nearly as powerful as his words. “Leave me the fuck alone, okay?”

He makes a beeline to his clothing, which are probably still damp where Oliver abandoned them in the foyer - in his haste to climb between the sheets.

“You want to be a saint? You want to help me?” Elio hisses as he struggles with his jeans. “Give me some fucking money.”

The request stuns. The vitriol stings. The heaviest burden is concern. Elio manages to dress and retrieve his guitar, but he’s shaking like an epileptic dog.

“You’re sick.”

Elio’s laugh is bitter as the strange stink of his breath. “Yeah. I’m sick, man. Give me some money, Oliver.”

Oliver’s mind stutters into gear. Where is his wallet even? The last few hours - how many? Twelve? - have been such a haze. Everything has been whittled down to this boy. Elio is the molten core of Oliver’s planet. Denying him is no longer an option.

By the time Oliver returns with the bit of cash from the coffee can on the fridge, Elio is gone. The door is standing wide open.

Oliver follows because he must. He tugs on his winter coat and takes his parka as an excuse. Elio needs a coat. If the boy wants, they can visit the nearest ATM. Empty Oliver’s bank accounts, for God’s sake. Just don’t run away like this.

Into the blinding white. Amidst the snowdrifts. Parked cars covered in sheets of ice like phantoms. No other living thing stupid enough trek this tundra. Oliver, in his insulated North Face coat, is losing sensation in his fingers and toes. Didn’t think it through: no gloves, no socks, just sneakers. Elio has on Chucks, a t-shirt and jeans under a torn denim jacket.

There’s no going back to the apartment without him. Without giving him something. Helping somehow. Even the belly full of food Oliver gave him is floating in the toilet in the master bath. There must be something more he can do.

After a distance that feels like two city blocks, but looks more like untraceable Antarctic miles, there’s a flash of dark. Oliver races toward it and finds himself amid the swirling ice, in the shadow of a massive modern mansion the likes of which he didn’t know were in this neighborhood.

He arrives at its walls in time to see Elio hurl something through a lower level window. The boy bunches his jacket around his fist and clears away the remaining shards of glass, totally ignorant to the blaring alarm. He stands on top of his guitar and hoists himself up through the frame, wiggling and struggling to climb inside. Oliver catches his thighs, but the boy kicks and yells and snakes away, falling inside with a thud.

The alarm goes on screaming. The wind is howling. Elio has disappeared inside of this castle. What choice does Oliver have? He can't just let this happen. 

It’s far easier for him to climb into the window, into the completely dark interior of a room. He hunches and creeps like the professional burglar he is not, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the lightlessness. His lips purse, holding back the desire to shout or at least whisper for Elio. For his boy. His boy. Not Gideon's. Not anyone else's.

He takes a total of three, cautious steps in the dark with his arms outstretched before lightning flashes. A sonic boom resounds and the momentum of the bullet now lodged in his skull knocks him backwards off his feet.

The world fades to white.


	9. Chapter 9

What is this infernal beeping?

A young woman hovers overhead. Blurry at first, but comes into focus with wheat-colored hair. Familiar blue eyes.

Not familiar. Oliver’s own eyes are looking down from the face of a twenty-something. So far as he knows, he doesn’t have a younger sister. If he didn’t know better, he’d say it was his mother, an angel.

He knows better. 

But this could be what dead feels like. No sensation at all. Only the beeping and this woman.

“Oh my god, Daddy!”

The angel nearly smothers him, falling onto his face with a suffocating embrace.

“Where’s Elio?”

The first time Oliver asks the question, the words are lost in the woman’s bosom. A solid, physical woman. Angels don’t wear perfume.

She stands upright, allowing Oliver a lungful of air. He uses it to repeat, “Where is Elio?”

The young woman is too busy fumbling with the cables and buttons on the side of his bed to answer. A bed with rails. Not Oliver’s bed at all. His throat feels like he’s been swallowing lit matches. Speaking is torture. He does it anyway.

“Elio?”

“I don’t know who that is. Daddy, do you know where you are?”

Hospital. Of course. Oliver just took a bullet. What doesn’t make sense is why this young woman keeps calling him Daddy. Oliver has one child who is 13 years old. Or 12. He forgets.

Rolling his eyes around in the socket is relatively easy compared to the impossible task of turning his head to the side.

Paralyzed?

“Daddy, don’t try to move. The nurse is coming.”

Oliver knew it was a mistake going through that window. He just couldn’t let Elio face that alone. The boy had been alone long enough.

The room fills quickly. The nurse checks vitals. A doctor shows up soon after. Then, Anne and Chambers appear, though they look different. Fuller. A toddler hangs in his ex-wife’s arms. A plump, little boy with huge dark eyes who stares down at Oliver for a moment. Then he folds himself into Anne’s shoulder, clutching her hair, which is at least a foot longer than the last time he saw her.

“What is…”

This time instead of speak, he croaks and breaks into a coughing fit.

“Don’t try to speak, Mr. Gelding,” the doctor says, smiling like it’s payday.

No. More like a non-believer beholding a miracle.

“Did someone call Adam?” Anne asks.

Adam is a new name. Oliver's head is full of soup. Then it’s blessedly empty.

  
When he awakens again, there is Adam. It must be Adam. Anne, Chambers and their baby are still here. Olivia, Oliver’s baby, who’s no baby anymore. She’s not a round-faced pre-teen either. She’s a… well, she’s no beauty. No one would call her that. But she’s poised and kind. There's palpable tenderness flowing out of her, toward Oliver. Tenderness he hasn’t earned.  
The last time he spoke with his daughter he called her a bloodsucker, like her mother.

Oliver closes his eyes. When they open again, the room is still full.  
But still no Elio.

They all address him with nonsense. "Welcome back. Good to see you."

The last to speak is this Adam.

Oliver never knew an Adam. Certainly not this cardigan-wearing 20-something in thick-rimmed glasses.

Turns out, Adam is Gloria’s nephew. Turns out, Adam saved Oliver’s life when he entered the office for an interview, witnessed Oliver suffering an aneurysm, and called 911. Then, boy-wonder spent the last 7 years using social media savvy to lead Oliver’s company into the multiple-million-dollar stratosphere. 

All Oliver can think while they're speaking is 'no no no no no.'

A decent person would thank Adam, they all should just fucking leave.

The nurse must notice the tear slip from his right eye because she sweeps the air with her hands and begins to clear the room. Her patient is under too much stress. He needs to rest. Coming out of a coma can be challenging emotionally and physically. They need to give him time.

Only Oliver is not mourning lost time with his daughter or the loss of his precious company.

He is coming to terms with the fact that his time with Elio was a 7-year hallucination.

That nurse is damn right. The patient needs to be alone with this pit of grief in the center of his chest growing hollower with every strained breath. The patient needs for his adult daughter not to suffocate him this time when she hugs. Olivia (Liv) Gelding sheds a few tears in his hair and swipes his forehead gently, whispering, “I love you so much.”

The crazy thing is, she sincere. How on earth can she mean that? Oliver isn't even sure he ever loved her. She was Anne’s choice. Anne’s child.  
Sure, he’d paid for the diapers and the braces and the tap shoes, but he’d been grateful for the excuse of work to save him from changings and appointments and recitals. His answer to every request for his time had been, “Ask your mother.”

He hadn’t been much more of a father than his own absent one. A deadbeat under the same roof. Yet, she loves him. Why? Shared genetics? Has she spent the last 7 years confiding secrets to a breathing corpse?

Some people awake from comas with memories of every visitor and liquified meal. All Oliver recalls is Elio. The way he smelled: filthy and clean. His smile. The depth of his eyes. The tone of his guitar. The sharpness of his bones, the softness of his skin, cool dampness of his hair still on Oliver's lips. The scent of coconut verbena and sweat.

All that was his brain’s response to a massive clot that could have ended him on the spot.

Lucky.

As the door closes behind them, Oliver’s sigh of relief burns his chest. Too much information. Too much disappointment. The girl pushes back in, rushes to his bedside, and squeezes his hand. It’s unwanted contact, but Oliver lacks the physical strength to pull away.


	10. Chapter 10

Elio’s back is frigid as a block of ice pressed against Oliver’s chest. Covered in gooseflesh, Oliver runs his hand down the boy’s freezing arm. He wraps an arm around his belly and draws him closer. Whispers, “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” 

The door opens and instantly, inexplicably, Elio is standing in the frame. Vanished from the bed.

Oliver blinks. Shit, no. It’s her. The girl. His daughter. Olivia.  
The hair is hers, long and blonde, although the face remains Elio’s. Oliver shuts his eyes, counts down from 5 to 1. When he opens his eyes again, Liv is still standing there. His only child, namesake, and heir. Not Elio in a wig.

“Daddy?” 

Oliver grunts. His useless muscles won’t let him roll away from her. The nurse turns him every hour on the hour, like a pig on a spit.

This isn’t living. 

Thanks, Adam, you little shit.  
Speaking of whom, the boy doesn’t even fight for the company. Buyers will line up. They’ll select the best offer and split the proceeds 70/30, in Oliver’s favor. It was his original patent, after all. Their lawyers will see to everything. Young Adam will walk away with enough money to never have to work again. He’s been so gracious about it that Oliver could puke on the contract. Before he leaves, Adam offers to shake the right hand that Oliver can’t lift more than an inch off the mattress.

The immobility should be temporary. Not paralysis. Atrophy. A good PT should help return his upper body to full use - or close. No promises about his legs, but one thing at a time. 

The whole damn thing is surreal. The waking moments are cloudy. The hallucination, Oliver’s coma-dream is like a memory. When he slips back asleep, he can move freely - in the fantasy.  
Back with Elio, in the apartment, taking refuge from a storm. Now that he knows it’s a dream, Oliver can fast forward, rewind, drop in at his favorite parts. Standing at the sink with Elio naked and wrapped around him. Lying in bed together, keeping the kid warm.

“Daddy? Are you awake?”

A deep grunt means, “Leave.”   
Talking still hurts and doesn’t sound quite right.

Liv doesn’t talk caveman. She perches on the side of his bed and touches his shoulder. Oliver’s recoil is reflex. He can still move that much. Liv removes her hand.

Every day.   
She visits every single day. Not because Oliver deserves it or because he asked her to. He would have thought she was lonely or bored, except that according to Liv’s unrequested update, she lives with her boyfriend and is completing her master’s thesis.

Maybe she feels like it’s the right thing to do. But why doesn’t matter.   
She shows up, talks and Oliver has no choice but to listen because he can’t run away.

It’s been nearly a week since he regained consciousness. They’ve threatened discharge tomorrow. Oliver has been trying to hold his breath long enough to die or slip back into a coma. It’s juvenile but the alternative is unthinkable.

“Daddy, I was wondering about something.”

Leave. He thinks the word with complete clarity. The girl must feel it.

“Who is Leo?”

Leave. Oliver lets out a long, bovine grunt. Five minutes later, his daughter gets the message.

***

An hour before discharge, the neurologist makes another visit. She smiles gently and eases into the chair beside his bed. One good thing about leaving the hospital is that he won’t have to hear the same spiel over and again.

“To be sure that you understand me, Mr. Gelding. Please bat your eyes if anything I say is unclear.”

She speaks slowly and clearly as if he’s in pre-school. 

“It is of the utmost importance that you follow the regimen we discussed. I know Be Here Now is the latest buzz word. This is not a New Age fancy for you, Mr. Gelding. This is existential.

To some extent, your brain is starting from scratch. So far as we can tell, you’ve retained recognition of your family, your personality, grasp of the language. I’ve had plenty of patients wake up entirely different people, or unable to comprehend speech. You’re very fortunate.”

This is Oliver’s luck.

“But in some ways, you’re like a baby, building new neuropathways. That means it’s of the utmost importance for you to remain firmly rooted in the present. Because of the damage, your brain might struggle to differentiate between reality and other stories, such as movies or memories. That’s why I’ve recommended the puzzles, board games, watching sports. Anything that keeps your mind engaged in the moment. 

It’s far less important to keep your memories intact than to be able to function in the now. I’m sure you’d agree.”

Oliver doesn’t reply. If he could move, he’d choke her.   
This is the third time he’s heard all this. 

“The affected areas of your brain are similar the same as what deteriorates in dementia patients. However, we have every reason to believe that you can rebuild those pathways. You can regain a relatively normal life if you simply spend as little time as possible in your imagination or the past. 

Be in the moment, Mr. Gelding. You should recover just fine.” 

Oliver receives a prescribed for anti-depressants and crossword puzzles even though his useless fingers can’t hold a damn pencil.

***

Seated at the dining table, Anne fusses over Oliver like the mother he never had. She feeds and wipes his mouth with the cloth napkin while her new husband and their three-year-old son watch.

This is why Oliver wanted to die. He still, longs for death. Instead, they fastened him at the thighs, chest, and forehead into a motorized wheelchair.

Connor can fucking feed himself. The boy watches with round eyes as Oliver grunts like an invalid, struggles to curl his fist and through force of will manages to say, “ ‘nough.”

“You have to eat, Ol. The doctor said that’s the most important thing for getting your strength back.”

He’d rather drop his face into the bowl and slurp like a pig in slop. His muscles are so useless, he can’t even grit his teeth, but he keeps his mouth shut for the next spoon full.

“Fine.”

The fork clanks into the bowl of matzo. Anne sits back in her seat and folds her arms.   
Not eating. Not being fed by his ex-wife is the only thing Oliver can control. He’s going to have his way, god damn it. 

Being diapered and cleaned by a stranger in the hospital was the definition of humiliation. Allowing Anne to do it: No.  
It’s going to be a slow exit for Oliver Gelding. He doesn’t relish the idea of starving to death, but that’s what’s on the docket.

Chambers wheels Oliver into the guest room and leaves him facing a window. A few hours later, when Liv knocks, Oliver is in his mind, creating Canned Supreme for his beguiling guest.

“Hi.”

The girl invites herself in.  
At least this time, Oliver doesn’t mistake her for Elio.

“Mom said you weren’t hungry earlier.”

Liv has that bowl of soup. She takes the chair beside Oliver and offers a small chunk of a matzo ball. Chewing is a chore, but it smells fucking amazing. 

Oliver grunts and shuts his eyes.  
Don’t do it.

His stomach growls a different command.   
How did Gandhi survive?

Gandhi was a five-foot flyweight, to begin with.

The will to deprive his gigantic body is weak. It takes an hour, but Liv ties on a bib and manages to get half the bowl of soup into him. She sets aside the bowl, wipes his mouth, and asks, “So, are you going to tell me about this Leo? You were saying that name before you were fully lucid.”

Oliver’s reply is more of a moan. 

It was a hallucination. There is no Elio. Not anywhere in the world anymore, except in Oliver’s imagination. He clears his throat, but the word only a whisper escapes, “Noone.”

Liv leans closer as if they’re swapping secrets. “Did you dream about him? The whole time?”

Oliver’s migraine is staging a comeback. He has one or two minor brainquakes a day: an hourlong kick drum solo behind his right eye. The occasional seizure. This girl’s interrogation is going to bring on another one.

Mind your business.  
Leave.

His daughter’s face is five inches away and she’s patient. Sits that way for a few minutes, waiting. Her perfume is pleasant - warm, like cinnamon, but he can’t place the fragrance. 

Oliver takes a breath and carefully exhales the name, “Elio.”

She looks up at him from behind his own eyes, lit up like her daddy just gifted her a pony. 

“Elio? Was he a friend?” 

Oliver closes his eyes. That’s enough. She should leave now. But of course, she doesn’t.   
He could leave. Retreat to his daydream and pretend she isn’t there. That none of this is happening.

Instead, he points his right index finger at his water, drinks from the sippy cup Liv holds to his mouth.  
When he’s finished, she sets it aside and says, “You don’t have to tell me.”

Of course, he doesn’t. Oliver doesn’t have to speak another world as long as he lives. He could insist on being released from this prison into his own home with professional around the clock care who he forbids to speak to him. He’s a multi-millionaire who has laid in bed for nearly a decade, pissing and shitting on himself. 

Rich was the only thing Oliver ever wanted to be. Not a husband, not a father.   
Filthy, stinking, dirty rich.   
All the money from selling SequCorp, won’t make Oliver able to walk again. The millions can’t buy him a new life. All the money in the world won’t bring Elio back. 

He’d end this if he could lift a hand against himself.   
How?  
Pills? Gun. Slit his own throat.   
He’s had fantasies about that. He’s daydreamed of Elio holding a gun to his forehead.

Elio.   
God.  
Oliver hadn’t thought of him in years and now, his entire waking life consists of looking forward to sleep and dreams of Elio Perlman.

Liv is watching his face.  
Oliver doesn’t owe his pain-in-the-ass mistake of a daughter anything. 

And yet, what will it cost him to tell an aggressively abridged version? He’ll leave out the ugly details. The disgusting parts that his tongue has never wrapped around. He’ll carefully omit the pain that was all his fault.


	11. Chapter 11

Oliver carefully plans what to say. The words line up in his throat, but they won’t fall off his tongue. He can’t scrape them off with his teeth.

Speech, so far, has been relatively easy. His throat ached like hell at first, but whispering solved that problem. Speaking a word or two works fine. Spitting out this complex collection of ideas is virtually impossible.

For the first time, Oliver is willing to tell his daughter about his life so far, and his useless mouth can’t even form the words.

After five minutes of indiscernible noises, he simplifies the concept and manages, “Elio … Brar.”

Olivia has been watching his mouth, squinting, struggling to make sense of his mumblings. Finally, she pieces together his encrypted message, sits back in her chair, and covers her mouth.

A tear slides down Oliver’s cheek, from sheer exertion and frustration.

“Does Mom know?” Liv asks. “All this time, you have a brother.”

The effort of speaking is too great. Oliver doesn’t try to correct her. It doesn’t matter what she believes. He closes his eyes and slips away.

If he could have spoken, he would have started with, “My mother died when I was a baby, so my grandfather raised me. ”

That much Anne knew and probably told Liv, at some point.

The fact was, Oliver’s mother killed herself after his dad left. The baby was a year old. The young mother only 18. The man had married the girl (with the barrel of a shotgun to his spine) and run off a year later.

Oliver’s grandfather, Joe, always said he wished he’d just killed the bastard when he found out his little girl was knocked up. Could have saved a lot of headaches. But there wasn’t much Joe could do to convince her that Roy Gelding was no good. The man looked like Robert Redford, and his little girl was starstruck. When it became clear that Roy wasn’t coming back, she drank half a gallon of turpentine and made Oliver Joe's problem.

According to Joe, the one good thing Oliver’s father did was give his son ‘tall genes.’

“Folks look up to a tall man,” Joe said. “And you got to live up to their expectation. You protect the little guy.”

To hear Joe tell it, the Korean War was a sack of bullshit. America didn’t have no bizniss picking on a bunch of little yellow guys who were just trying to do things their own way.

Ol’ Joe did not tolerate laziness, sloppiness, backtalk, or dishonesty. Other than that, Oliver had free reign. One day, he came home with a box of stolen cookies. When he explained to his grandfather where he’d gotten them, his only punishment was to give the old man half the loot.

Another thing Joe always said, “Never let nobody call you no damn orphan because you ain’t. You got your old grandad and I ain’t going nowhere.”

That was true until Oliver was 11 and the old man got himself stabbed during a bar fight. Probably, he was standing up for some little guy.

When Joe died, they put Oliver in a foster home.

“They.” The man. The guv’ment. Ol’ Joe had given a very precise civics lesson. War was bullshit. Guv’ment was bullshit. People ought to live whatever way they want. Says so in the Constertution.

But, Joe was dead. His mother was dead. So, Oliver went into the system. For the first time, he attended public school. Even though he’d never been, he could read and reason above his grade level. He was as tall as the kids in the seventh grade, but his rudimentary math and social skills held him back.

The boy went to live with strangers who didn’t believe that kids should do whatever they want. He discovered that most people want kids to stay quiet, speak politely, do their homework.

And not eat so damn much.

In his first home, he earned the nickname, the Horse. He wouldn’t stop growing and always needed bigger clothes. Oliver would thump groggily down the steps in the morning and his foster mother would groan.

“You all better get to the table before the Horse gobbles up everything.”

Eventually, they enacted a two plate rule for him, which was never enough. But there were three other boys' mouths to feed, and Oliver had to make do with a constantly growling stomach.

One time, the little one, James, tried to sneak him a contraband banana.  
When the foster mother found out, she took to little Jimmy with “the bizness end” of a belt.

That kid was howling. The woman was screaming and swinging. Oliver didn’t even think before he stepped between them. The buckle struck his shoulder and he shoved, without considering that he was a few inches taller and heavier than his foster mother.

She stumbled backward, tripped over a toy truck. The belt flew from her hand as she fell and struck her head on the bottom step. Her concussion earned Oliver the permanent label: ‘violent,’ ‘troubled,’ ‘unruly.’

Problem cases don’t get adopted.

However, a few kind souls specialize in housing bad eggs. Broken boys. When he was 12, Oliver got lucky and landed with a woman named Marcia Gorden. Her only foster, at the time, his life consisted of chores, homework, woods, and plenty of time to himself. Compared to the last place, it was heaven.

Then, this tiny kid showed up. Marcia said he was 6, but he looked younger. Porcelain-white skin. Bright red mouth. Huge, hazel eyes and dark curls flying in every direction.

The kid, Elio, hardly spoke at all. He'd only hold eye contact with the wall, which was fine. Oliver had already established a policy of not getting attached to people. When you get attached, bad things happen. They die. They get beat. On top of that, you never know when you or they would get shipped out.

On Elio’s first night, Marcia made her specialty: spaghetti and meatballs. There was always more than enough to eat. And leftovers. And the food was good.

As Oliver was bringing plates, he stopped cold. The little kid had both hands between his legs, way up at the crotch, rubbing them together like he was trying to start a fire under the table. Oliver wasn’t planning to rat the kid out, but he glanced over his shoulder just as Marcia turned around with the saucepan.

She shrieked, “What are you doing?”

Instead of stopping, the kid went faster, biting his lip, staring at the wall.

“You stop that. It’s a nasty, dirty habit.”

Marcia put down the pan, jerked Elio from his chair, and pulled his hands away. Oliver glanced at and then instantly away from the little tent in his shorts.

Some kids suck their thumbs. When Elio was nervous, he rubbed himself off. He didn’t care if he got in trouble, or if other kids called him a freak. It was his security blanket, like that kid in Charlie Brown.

One day, about a week after Elio arrived, Oliver found him in the woods. His pants were up, but he was sitting on the ground with his back against a log, feeling himself up.

Oliver’s first instinct was to turn around and leave the little weirdo alone. Not his problem.  
But Marcia was at wit’s end, trying to ignore the kid’s habit. If somebody didn’t do something, he'd wind up one of those creepy flasher guys.

Oliver glanced around to be sure they were alone before he knelt and gently gripped Elio’s wrists. He stilled the busy hands in the kid’s lap.

“Listen, you can’t do that anymore. Okay?”

Elio’s calf eyes stared back. He blinked. Did his brain even work?

“It’s private. You know what that means?”

The kid nodded.  
He never asked why. He just stopped doing that, at least in public.

Maybe it was because Oliver was between a kid and a teen. Someone he could look up to who wasn’t bossing him around. But Elio listened.

And since they were already sharing a bedroom, they started sharing secrets. Elio talked about his mother. Oliver told him about Joe and their RV and all the places he’d been. Late at night, when they were supposed to be asleep, the boys would whisper. Then, they'd struggle to wake in the morning.

Even though Elio had stopped his naughty habit, the kids in the neighborhood kept calling him “Freak” “Alien” “Ghost.” Oliver didn’t have to bash any heads. He simply walked Elio everywhere until they got the hint.

Some people like to fight. Oliver was naturally good at it. Joe had always insisted on sparring.  
“A man’s got to be able to defend himself and the little guy.”  
But violence is for emergencies.

After that, all the other kids treated Elio like glass. They either looked through him or gave him a wide berth.

After school, while Oliver did homework, Elio made melodies.  
The piano in Marcia’s living room was fifty years old and had never been tuned. It had as many wonky notes as clear ones. Elio plunked around, humming the notes the piano couldn’t deliver. Sometimes, he played songs they both knew. Sometimes, he’d pull a song from the air with a quiet announcement, “I made this up for you.”

He’d hum along while he played. While Oliver stared, stunned. When he was finished, Elio smiled to himself and tucked his chin to his chest while his one-man audience applauded.

He'd never had a lesson. He’d never been any place with a piano before.  
He hardly talked to anyone else.  
Some people thought he was “special needs,” but when they were alone, Elio would laugh and point out details about other peoples' bodies that Oliver had never noticed. Like Marcia’s long neck and his case worker’s tiny ears. He’d imitate voices and posture like he’d spent hours studying everyone.

When he did his impression of Oliver, Elio’s spine straightened. He broadened his shoulders and poked out his chest. He shook his shaggy hair from his eyes and stood proud and beautiful and perfect in ways Oliver never saw in the mirror. The only perfect person he knew was his little foster brother.

“You look like a superhero,” Elio said.

Oliver didn’t tell Elio that he looked like a doll because he wasn’t sure how the kid would take it.

***

Whenever Oliver passed a toy store, he'd plaster his face to the window. Or if they went for groceries, he’d covet packs of gum. If he'd had any money, he would have bought everything - not for himself. For his brother. 

But Marcia didn't have extra cash to give allowances. Probably because Oliver gobbled up all her money. On his way home from school, one afternoon, he got an inspiration and snapped an orange daisy from someone’s yard. The center was the same variant color as Elio’s eyes.

He placed it across the piano keys and closed the lid. Settled down to his homework and waited until Elio trounced in from school. Oliver's heart thudded as the kid dropped his bag and sat on the bench.

Elio's first reaction was a chuckle. He glanced over his shoulder, grinning. Holding the flower between both hands, he sniffed it and then rubbed the soft petals on his cheek. Right where Oliver would have died to put a kiss. Elio placed his gift carefully across his lap and started to play.

Oliver brought an orange flower every day until the yard where he found them was nearly bare. The lady whose house it was caught him plucking and chased him with a broom. After that, he had to settle for bringing wildflowers.

They never played catch together or anything. Elio wasn’t built for it and Oliver only ever wanted to read. But still, Elio was like a kid brother. And that’s why Oliver didn’t.

Yeah, sure, he thought about it. He wanted to.  
There was something about Elio that makes you want to. Or maybe there was something wrong with Oliver. Probably both. There’s always something not right with foster kids.

Oliver had done stuff with boys and girls, but Elio was different. Elio was his worst crush of all time. Oliver wanted him the most, but he was way too little.

The right thing to do was wait. Either, Oliver would get over it, or eventually, Elio would be big enough.

***

Elio certainly wasn’t big enough that night when Hurricane Susan cracked through the woods and knocked so many branches off the trees that they spent the whole next day clearing debris from the road. Luckily, there was no damage to the roof.

There was very nearly damage that night, though. There was definitely pain.

Real, physical pain as Elio crept across the room and wiggled under Oliver’s blankets. So cold and bony. Oliver was a huge, overheated monster, yearning to do awful things to a little kid.

Elio curled close, as if Oliver was his shell. Closer and closer until he was rutting against Oliver’s leg, like an unfixed puppy.

The bigger boy lay still as stone, not even daring to ask him to stop. Unable to explain that it was torture.

“Oliver?”

“Hm?”

“Don’t you want to?”

“Go to sleep, Elio.”

Every night after that storm, Elio crawled into Oliver’s bed and humped his foster brother’s leg while Oliver squeezed his eyes shut, fisted his sheets, and refused to let himself do anything bad.


	12. Chapter 12

Marcia knocks before she enters the room. Their foster mother is always welcome. But not her fucking brother.  
At the sight of Flip, Oliver lunges, intending to rip out that animal's throat.

The idea of Marcia adopting the boys started as a joke  
They conspired and made her breakfast in bed for mother’s day. Oliver fried the eggs and sliced the orange. Elio made and buttered the toast. 

“I ought to keep you both,” she said and guzzled her coffee.

The boys looked at each other, smiling.

The thing is, adoption costs money. People get paid to keep fosters. There was never enough money and they were never going to be adopted. 

For Elio’s eighth birthday, Oliver wrote a story about two brothers who travel around the country fighting monsters and stuff. The older brother was fair-haired, the younger darker. They loved each other more than anything and nobody could ever split them up. He drew orange daises all in the margins. 

On the other hand, if Marcia did adopt them both, they’d be brothers.  
But then, would it be legal to love Elio the way Oliver loved him? If they were brothers, he’d never be allowed to touch Elio the way he was always begging to be touched? 

At 15, Oliver was bigger than most of the adults they knew. Some days he felt like he’d burst out of his skin. Like he was growing so fast he could hear his bones creaking in the night. Some parts of his body always ached and he was always always hungry.  
The only person he ever told any of that was Elio when they were lying in bed together in the safety of the darkness. 

A few weeks after Elio’s birthday, Flip arrived. 

As his car crunched over the gravel, Oliver let out a long, low growl. Elio stood beside him at their window and watched Marcia’s brother climb out. 

“If he tries to push you around, just run to Marcia.”

Flip was like an earthquake in California. He didn’t happen often and you couldn’t predict when he was coming, but he was always a dreaded possibility.

Oliver stayed safe in his bedroom for as long as he could and wouldn’t let Elio go snooping. But when it was dinner time, it was either show up at the table or starve. House rules. When Marcia called, he sighed and tromped down the steps with Elio close in tow.

Same as last time, Flip started the conversation with an attack. He jostled his shoulder against Oliver’s and asked, “Boy, don’t tell me you still aren’t playing sports. That’s a god damn waste. You ought to make him play ball, Marcia.”

Marcia was busy cooking and never paid her brother’s antics much attention. Even when he was slamming himself against Oliver like they were in a mosh pit. For whatever reason, Flip had always had it out for him. Like all he wanted was to see Oliver kicked out. No idea what the guy’s problem was, but Oliver wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of flipping out or losing his temper.

“You two knock it off.”

Oliver would have happily knocked it off, but Flip kept flinging himself against him - egging him into battle. Elio stood by the door watching with wide-eyed panic. 

“The boy doesn’t want to play ball, Flip,” Marcia said without turning around. “Lay off.”

“Then, he’s a sissy.”

“Don’t listen to him, Ollie. Not like he was any great hero on the field.”

“You, shut up.” Flip bumped his shoulder into her.

Marcia lost her footing for a second and then swatted him with her spoon, splatting tomato sauce on the wall beside Elio. He stared at the stain and then watched Flip twist Oliver’s arm behind his back. 

Oliver struggled, got loose, and tried to run. Laughing, Flip leaped onto his back and caught him in a headlock.

“You going to go out for football? Huh? Quit being a sissy and go out for the team. Fucking giant. What are you, 14? Freaking big as me.”

Oliver was 15, 6’2” and growing with no signs of stopping.  
Between Old Joe and growing up as one of the few white kids in group homes, he knew how to fight.  
He also knew that fighting, mouthing off, or simply disobeying adults was a quick ticket out.

Other than when Flip comes around, Marcia’s house was an oasis. Not to be destroyed over one jerk. So he let Flip grip his neck, growled through the pain, and didn’t break the hold. Until he saw Elio’s eyes. Welling up. His back against the wall, ready to erupt into tears. 

So, he did it. Oliver stepped back, bent all the way forward, jutted his hip, and sent Flip sprawling on the floor like an overturned beetle. Oliver reveled for one glorious moment. Elio’s eyes got even bigger as he chewed the corner of his lip.

The man scrambled to his feet and shoved Oliver against the wall with his forearm against his throat. “You ungrateful little shit.”

“All right, that’s enough,” Marcia said. “Elio set the table. Ollie, go wash your hands. And Flip, you lay off. I mean it.”

Elio scrambled into gear and Flip’s head turned as if he was seeing the kid for the first time. Oliver’s stomach wound into a knot. Bruised pride and sprained shoulder became secondary concerns as he threw himself between Flip and Elio. 

The little one, with both hands full of eating utensils, stopped in the middle of the floor, watching them square off. Oliver’s nostrils flared like a racing greyhound. The corner of Flip’s mouth curled as he leaned and blew his early morning beer breath into Oliver’s face, “You tap that, don’t you?”

“What?”

Did Marcia not hear that? Or did she not understand the slang? Or had Oliver slipped into an alternate universe where it was okay to casually ask about fucking children?

“Do you?”

“He’s a little kid,” Oliver whispered back when he should have been screaming. 

Flip’s brow raised. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

Oliver's heart strained to beat its way out of his chest. 

“What? You never seen his file?” Flip chuckled and slapped Oliver’s arm as if they’d just shared a great joke. 

Oliver ate, not because he was hungry. He ate because hunger striking doesn’t work for teenage boys over 6 feet tall. He ate without tasting. While he chewed, he silently plotted Flip’s death. And wondered what was in that file. What Elio hadn’t told him. Things Oliver had already sensed. 

After dinner, Oliver got dish duty while Marcia got dressed up. High heels, makeup, the works.

“Are you going out?” His voice squeaked.

She smiled and patted Oliver’s cheek. “Is that allowed, from time to time?” 

He watched the door close, because what could he do to stop her.

By the time Oliver was done cleaning the kitchen, Flip had settled onto the couch with Elio squirming in his lap. His little eyes turned up to Oliver, wordlessly begging for help. 

“Elio, let’s go to bed.”

“Elio’s going to play me a song,” Flip said and tugged Elio’s earlobe.

Oliver chewed his tongue until it bled, ice rushing through his veins. “He’s got school tomorrow.”

“Good night, Ollie,” Flip said.

Oliver stood there. Flip stood, too, letting Elio stand, then taking his tiny hand. “Say Good night to Oliver.” 

Elio didn’t speak at first, still wearing that desperate look. Then he started to wince. Flip’s fist around Elio’s went tighter until Oliver couldn’t take it anymore. One small step forward and Flip sneered. 

“What? What are you going to do?” 

If he’d seen Elio’s file, he’s certainly Oliver’s, too. History of violence. Troubled. Unruly.

“Go the fuck to bed, Oliver.”

Oliver’s shoulders heaved. His right foot heavy as an anchor, he took the first step and glanced over his shoulder. Flip waggled his fingers and lifted Elio like a puppet.

“Come here, sweetheart. My sister says you can play the piano. Why don’t you show Uncle Flip what you can do?”

No way. There was no way. Flip was only torturing Oliver. It was Oliver’s mistake. He’d let the man sniff out how much the kid meant to him. Caring too much and letting it show were both mistakes. Either way, Flip was taunting him.  
He wouldn’t really hurt the kid. Not really. He was an asshole, not a psycho.  
Nobody would do that. 

Only, if what Flip was saying was true, somebody had already done that to Elio. The thought made Oliver want to vomit, but maybe it made Elio tougher. Able to deal with that kind of crap. How would Oliver know? Elio hadn’t trusted him enough to tell the truth. 

He’d talked about his mom doing drugs. He’d talked about sleeping in the bathtub while weird guys came in.  
And Oliver had confided that he’d wanted to kill that lady when he pushed her. Big people shouldn’t pick on little people. It isn’t fair. They don’t stand a chance.

The piano played for a while. A bit of plunking. None of the beautiful melodies Elio was capable of. Oliver’s chest burned with pride that he wasn’t giving his best. He’d be all right. The kid was smart.

Then the silence started. Oliver sat up in bed. He planted his feet on the floor and tried to hear anything other than his breathing.

If it wasn’t for Flip coming around a few random nights out of the year, this was the best home he’s ever been in. Elio had said the same. He loved it here. Liked Marcia. Liked her cooking, especially that stir fry thing.  
Flip would be gone in two days, tops.  
Two days. They could survive for two days. Then, they’d be fine. Back to normal. 

“He’ll be all right. He’s smart.”

Oliver lay back, pounded his fist against his leg, and repeated that mantra until he fell asleep.

When Elio finally came into the room, he slipped into his own bed.

“Elio?”

Nothing.

“Come here.”

Nothing. 

***

The grownups weren’t awake yet, so Oliver and Elio had silent cereal for breakfast. Flip strolled in, grinning, a few minutes before Marcia dragged herself to the sink and filled her coffee pot. 

“Looks like somebody had a good night.”

She smiled, groggily, and asked, “How’d you boys do?”

“Well, Ollie went right to bed but this one played for me, didn’t you, Elio?”

Elio never saw Flip’s greasy look because he was too busy studying his cornflakes. So Flip leveled the smirk on Oliver and said, “That kid is talented.”

Oliver's memory blanks after that. The next thing he remembers is four cops holding him down on the cold, hard linoleum. 

“Daddy! Daddy, please. Stop this.”

By the time Oliver stops growling, Anne, Chambers, Liv, and a stranger, some black guy, are lifting him into bed and pinning his flailing limbs to the mattress.


	13. Chapter 13

“Let me get this straight.” The very large, very butch OT looks up from the letter and chuckles as if Oliver’s suffering is hilarious. “You attacked your daughter’s boyfriend.”

There’s nothing funny about it. Oliver mistook Liv’s boyfriend for Flip and tried to rip out his throat, exactly as he’d done when he was a strapping 15-year-old steer. The only problem is that Oliver is 55 now and functionally paralyzed, so in his rage, he flopped himself out of bed, frothing at the mouth like a rabid raccoon - according to Liv’s characterization.

He had been certain it was Flip. And for a moment, the same uniformed cops were anchoring him to the kitchen floor. The overturned breakfast table to one side of his peripheral vision. In the other corner of his eye, Elio clutching Marcia. Flip was a pile of bloody pulp wallowing in milk and Cheerios, fucking lucky to still be breathing. His disgusting blend of motor oil, sweat, and cheap cologne was still thick on the air. If Marcia hadn’t clobbered Oliver over the head with whatever it was, he’d still be throttling her brother.

That was way back when Oliver had every reason to attack. At least he believed he did. Now he’s a paraplegic, losing his fucking mind a little more every day.

In reality “Flip” was Liv’s boyfriend, Ashraf. Some kind of African kid who didn’t even look like Flip. That’s how far gone Oliver’s mind is. By the time he became lucid to reality, Ashraf had helped the others lift him back into his bed like a helpless baby. They’d held him still until the hallucination cleared and he passed out from the stress.

When Oliver woke again, Liv was alone at his bedside. Breathing hurt. Hearing her account of what happened was worse.

“You’re not even trying.” Liv rubbed both eyes as if she hadn’t slept in weeks. “We have access to the best care in the world, and you refuse to let anyone help you.”

Oliver didn’t refute the accusation. He doesn’t want help. He wants death.

“I don’t understand what’s going on with you, Daddy,. You’ve got to let us help you.”

He closed his eyes, ready to drift back into one of the good dreams, where Elio —

“Daddy!”

Liv’s barrage of arm punches wasn’t exactly painful, but it was enough to prevent Oliver from slipping away.

“I can’t deal with this anymore. If you’re not even going to try…”

She slammed the door when she left the room. At the time, her departure was a relief. A week later, when she hadn’t returned, Oliver accepted one simple fact: if he was going to kill himself, he’d need control of at least one hand.

So, he’d allowed Anne to set up this appointment.

The occupational therapist looks like a Samoan witch doctor: thick black curls, dusky skin, bulbous forearms covered in tattoos. The bitch finds Oliver’s episode entertaining.

Her assessment reveals that Oliver has to relearn writing, speaking in more than single-sentence, brushing his teeth, feeding himself, wiping his goddamn ass. The OT settles her heft on a chair beside his bed so that her ass bubbles out of the sides. She asks, “How’s your sex life?”

It’s a crude, cruel question and Oliver has enough tongue-control to speak his mind: “Fuck you.”

She laughs. “No, not me, Romeo. But how about the hot brunette who let me in the house?”

Oliver rolls his eyes. “Ex-wife.”

“That must be fun.”

“Ha.”

“You two rekindling?”

“Remarried.” And good riddance.

“Oh, she did, did she? Well, her husband must love having you here.”

Honestly, Chambers can dive off a bridge. Who gives a shit what any of them think?

“I see.” The OT scribbles a not on her legal pad. “Well, can you get it up?”

If Oliver could choke this woman, he’d be on his way to prison.

“I’ll take the growling as a no.” She writes that down, smiling like it’s a picnic. “There’s our first goal.”

“What?”

“For you to be able to spring one and to beat it back down.”

Oliver’s facial muscles can’t currently convey his disgust and confusion. They’re paying for this garbage?

“Mr. Gelding, I’m not going to go over all the physical, mental, emotional benefits to masturbation. You’re going to trust me because I’m the professional. Now, is there somebody around here who can get you some good spank material?”

No one Oliver would ask. Chambers maybe, but that guy avoids him, which is better than fine.

“All right, then, I’ll bring you something if you tell me what you like.”

Oliver uses his right to remain silent.

“Unless you want me to guess. That could be fun.” The OT throws back her head and laughs, all of her chins and belly shaking like pudding. “In the meantime, fantasy can be even better than porn.”

Is Oliver allowed fantasy? By doctor’s orders, he’s not supposed to dwell in the past. His brain is too mushed to tell the difference.

“The beautiful thing about fantasy,” she continues, “is that you can be anywhere, with anyone, doing whatever freaky shit gets you off. Know what I mean?”

Oliver knows full well what she means and he’s never been happier to see someone leave. He’s not going to let some overweight, pseudo-medical lunatic tell him what to do with his body.

Then, there is the question of whether what she asked is even still possible. He hasn’t been hard since he came to in the hospital. The only times he’s been remotely aroused was in dreams and there’s no telling whether that carries over to his real, physical body. It would be interesting to find out.  
For science.

Eyes closed.  
Not the past.  
Not supposed to be in the past.  
A fantasy.  
Something hot.  
Anywhere.  
With anyone.  
Doing anything.

Not that.  
God, he was a child.

Oliver was too old for him back then. To fantasize about that now would be… Well, it’s not illegal to fantasize, is it? Not like anyone would ever know. The OT didn’t ask him to report on what he imagined. The assignment is to get an erection.

And he doesn’t have to tell her anything. It’s not her freaking business.  
He sure as shit got hard as an anvil whenever Elio would hump his leg.

Not that!  
Jesus.  
What is wrong with you?

“Hey, handsome. You’re going to give yourself another aneurysm.”

Oliver doesn’t need to open his eyes. He knows the voice almost as well as his own. From the dream. From memories. Only the sound in the room instead of in his head.

“You want some help with your homework?”

“No, Oliver,” Oliver says to himself, out loud. “Stop it.”

“Calling me by your name now? I could get into that.”

Eyes still shut, Oliver takes a few deep breaths before he opens them.

Elio is sitting on the foot of the bed, grinning like a Cheshire cat. 19 years old. Ghastly pale. Clad in scuzzy-rocker faded black. Hair greasy and wild like something Keith Richards regurgitated in the early 90s.Eyes wide and captivating as ever.

“So, you’re going crazy, huh?”

“Are you a ghost?”

“Do you believe in ghosts, Oliver?”

“No.”

“It’s your show, man. What do you think?”

"You're not real."

Elio shrugs. "So? Does that bother you?"

“I’m losing it.”

“Well, at least you look good.”

Oliver is eighty pounds lighter than his ideal weight, strapped into a wheelchair and wearing an adult diaper beneath his clothes. It’s not the sexiest he’s ever felt. Elio looks delicious and dirty.

The kid smirks. “Say that out loud.”

Oliver takes a breath, purses his lips before he finally spits out, “You… You look good.”

“That was difficult?” Elio smirks and slinks across the room where he drops to his knees in front of Oliver’s chair. He licks his lips and palms Oliver’s crotch. “Does this offend you?”

“Elio.”

“Oliver.”

Oliver drops his hand in his lap. It’s the most he can do to protect his dignity and conceal his limp cock. Elio, however, is stronger. He places Oliver’s hand back on the armrest. He leans forward and kisses Oliver’s fly before fumbling with zipper and velcro, revealing a halfway respectable boner.

“I’m not doing this for you. Come on,” Elio says, dragging Oliver’s hand to his shaft. “Teamwork.”

He’s not fully hard and his fingers quickly start to cramp, but it’s an accomplishment akin to running a marathon.

When the door opens, Oliver is stroking himself nice and slow with a loose grip reinforced by Elio’s guiding hand.

“Oh, God. I’m sorry.” Anne backs out of the room. “I thought I heard someone. So sorry.”

Elio laughs and hurls a throw pillow at the closing door. Then he begins massaging Oliver’s taxed and throbbing hand. “How was that?”

Oliver nods, gratified, exhausted.

“You want to get in the bed?”

“I want to die.”

“Hey!” Elio leaps to his feet and leans with his hands on Oliver’s forearms. Hazel eyes boring a hole into Oliver’s soul. “I don’t want to hear that bullshit from you anymore. Got it?”

Oliver tries to look away.

“Oliver, do you fucking hear me?”

“I hear you, Elio,” he mumbles.

He hears Elio loud and clear as if he was actually in the room, instead of a figment of Oliver's twisted imagination.


	14. Chapter 14

When Natia arrives, Oliver has already asked Elio ten times to stop drumming on the table. Apparently, the kid doesn’t realize or doesn’t care that he's Oliver’s delusion.

“Hey, Mr. Gelding,” Natia’s voice is tuba-loud, added to the persistent bass drum of Oliver’s migraine.

He grunts a greeting but doesn’t try to look in her direction. Like a curious puppy, Elio bounds over to see what Natia has spread on the coffee table. 

“Oh my, God, dude. Look at these.” He cackles. “She thinks you’re a freak.”

Oliver would have to crane his neck and focus his eyes. The idea of all that movement is an offer of torture. Right now, it would be best if the universe would disintegrate to mist.

“I have to admit,” Elio continues. “I always thought so, too. You’re wound up so tight you can barely fart. But this right here...”

In the corner of Oliver’s eye, Elio displays one of Natia's treasures. “This is some epicly freaky shit. We are watching this the minute she leaves.”

Curiosity is a powerful sorcery. When Natia notices Oliver straining to see, she says of her DVD selection, “I just bought a wide variety. You’re going to have to ask the ex-missus or somebody to put something on for you.”

Elio is still grinning at one of the titles, but it’s hard to see with the room swirling. Vomiting might help.  
Natia squats in front of Oliver’s chair sliding her finger slowly through the air from left to right. 

“Can you follow this?”

At first, Oliver closes his eyes to block her out. She taps his knee and waits. When he checks back in, he sighs and rolls his eyes left to right to track the movement of her finger. Like a miracle, his migraine begins to subside. It fades, becoming more discomfort than desperation. 

“That’s better,” Natia says. “Your eyes were crossing pretty badly there. Honestly, you need a whole host of specialists. One thing you need is to get those optic muscles back in shape. It’s amazing what all will go wonky after a few years of unuse.”

Elio stands at Natia’s shoulder as if he’s shadowing to learn her job.

“So.” Natia hoists her heft into the standing position and asks, “You had any luck with the assignment?”

This woman could catch Oliver's testicles in a vice and he'd never admit that his hallucination has jerked him off three times since her last visit. 

“All right. A lady never tells. I get it.” 

Natia disappears behind Oliver's chair and wheels him to the card table.

“Well, today we’re going to do a little gross, a little fine motor. Can you put your arms on the table?”

With a feat of superhuman attention, Oliver lifts his right forearm to the table. The left will only rise five inches off the armrest. Natia helps the rest of the way. She directs Oliver to slide his hands left and right. Then, she asks him to tap each finger.

“Very good. All right. Let’s try one more thing.”

She places a thick, black charcoal pencil between his hands. 

“Can you lift that?”

Oliver can touch it. He can curve his fingers, but he lacks the dexterity to capture the pencil.

“Come on, Ol,” Elio rests his hands on Oliver’s shoulders.

If Oliver could lift the fucking thing, he’d fling it across the room. He musters a burst of control and rolls the pencil ineffectually off the table, leaving his arm dangling uselessly beside him.

Natia picks it off the floor. “Not what I was going for, but that was terrific!” 

Winded and humiliated, Oliver lacks the power in his jaws to grind his teeth. His nostrils flare on their own. He stares at the floor to conceal his misting eyes.

“Quit being a baby, Oliver. She’s trying to help you.”

“Fuck off.”

Natia's eyebrows tweak and Oliver doesn’t correct the assumption that he was talking to her. She can fuck off, too. Right along with the rest of the world.

Before Natia has a chance to tell Oliver where he can go, there’s a knock and the door begins to open. 

Liv sticks in her head and smiles. "Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all,” Natia answers. “We were just finishing up.”

Oliver’s daughter hasn’t been to visit in a few weeks. It surprises him that he warms at the sight of her. 

Liv offers the OT her hand. “Olivia Gelding.” 

“You sure favor your dad, don’t you?”

Liv smiles. Oliver never could deny paternity. The kid always looked just like him.

“Yeah, she does,” Elio chimes in. “Especially the eyes.” 

“I hope he’s behaving himself,” Liv says with an apologetic tone before she kisses Oliver’s forehead.

“Believe it or not, I have ruder patients.”

“That is hard to believe. What are you guys working on?”

“Well, I’ve given your dad an ongoing assignment. It looks like he’s been doing it. Mr. Gelding, you’re going to want to alternate hands. Use left and right. Both. One finger at a time. Get creative.”

Liv's brows raise at the pile of DVDs on the table. When she sits on the sofa, Elio oozes down next to her, leaning inches from her face. “You know, it’s funny how looks like you, without being remotely hot.”

Oliver growls. He’s not going to debate his daughter’s hotness.

“Well, she seems great,” Liv says crossing her legs. 

Elio does the same. Oliver doesn’t reply. A few hundred years of sleep would be great.

“Daddy, I’m really proud of you for doing this. Everything is going to be —”

Oliver clears his throat loudly and lets the phlegm dribble down his chin. It’s gross, but it shuts Olivia up and sends her on a goose chase for something to wipe Oliver’s face. As she’s throwing away the tissue, Liv casually says, “Mom says she’s heard you talking to someone.”

Oliver hums his disapproval. ‘Mom’ needs to shut her nosy trap. 

“Do we need to set up a psych eval, Dad? Dr. Carver said you might have some weird—“

“No,” Oliver snaps. 

And that’s that.   
His daughter takes a breath and perches on the sofa again.

“Tell her you’re practicing,” Elio suggests. 

Oliver doesn’t say another word. He doesn’t have to explain himself.

“You know, Daddy, I want you to meet Ashraf … When you’re ready.”

“The boyfriend.”

Liv lights up. “He’s a lot more than that.”

Oliver doesn’t argue. Doesn't give a shit.

“How did you meet?” Elio asks. 

Oliver does not care about her daughter's Third World boyfriend. However, staring at Liv’s lips while she’s talking is whittling his migraine down to a low hum.

“He’s the reason I forgive you,” she says.

Even Elio shuts up for change. 

“Ash is the reason I can love you after… Well, you weren’t the best dad.”

No contest. 

“Ash … He’s amazing, Dad. He doesn’t even hate the men who killed his family. In front of him. He doesn't hate the evil bastards who tried to make a little boy into a soldier. Just, getting to know everything he’s been through, it seemed totally petty for me to hate you, as easy as it would have been.” 

Elio puts a hand on her back. Oliver doesn't try to respond. They all sit in silence for a few moments, as if commemorating the loss of Ash’s family. The destruction of his innocence. For that matter, Oliver grieves his youth and Elio’s purity until Liv says, “I looked and I couldn’t find anything about your brother.”

No reply.

“Leo Gelding? Leo, right?”

“Tell her you asshole,” Elio says and kicks Oliver's shin.

If Oliver could clench his teeth, he would. 

“Perlman”, Elio says, although Oliver keeps his mouth shut.

“Well, I’ll keep looking,” Liv says. “Mom had no idea.”

“We were foster brothers,” Elio tells her. “And your daddy here taught me to ride a bike.”

Oliver sucks in a quick breath. He’d forgotten that. 

“We also caught a shit ton of frogs,” Elio adds. 

“Toads,” Oliver corrects, voice soft as the wind.

Liv leans closer. “What?” 

“We caught toads.”

Elio continues, “I always wanted to cut them open, see what was inside. Your dad wouldn’t let me.”

Oliver chuckles. All true.

“Then we got split up," Elio says. "which is what happens in foster families.” 

“He was younger?” Liv asks, still smiling about the cute image of little boys chasing amphibians.

Yeah. That part was fun. Most of it was shit. 

“Foster,” Oliver says.

“Foster brother?”

Elio nods. 

“Oh. No wonder. Leo...”

“E - lio.” 

“Elio. Oh. So, you two grew up together?”

As long as Oliver focuses on one concept at a time and speaks deliberately, he can do this. “A little.”

“Tell her everything,” Elio says.

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

Oliver draws a long breath and pretends to do the math he already knows precisely, almost to the day. “Twenty-eight years.”

“Where is he now?”

Not counting the apparition of Elio who is staring at him, Oliver drops his eyes. Enough of this.

“Is he ... Did he pass away, Dad?”

Oliver lets a small grunt speak. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry. You must have been close friends.”

“I wouldn’t say we were friends." Elio stands and crosses the room. "I wanted your father and he didn’t want me.”

“That’s not true,” Oliver says.

Liv asks. “Then, why would you dream about him?” 

The three-way conversation is a dizzying mind-fuck.

“My fault,” Oliver explains through a scratchy, parching throat.

“Your fault?” Liv echoes. “That he died?”

Another affirmative grunt. The migraine is returning with a thrumming vengeance. Liv ruminates for a while, silent and reverent. 

“You know what Ash says? You have to forgive everyone, starting with yourself. He doesn’t hate those men. He doesn’t hate himself for the people he’s killed. He says love is the only thing that can cleanse us. That’s why I forgive you, Daddy. No matter what. And I’m sure your friend, Elio, whatever happens, after we die, he must forgive you, too.”

“Tired,” Oliver blows the word between his teeth.

It’s pure mercy when Liv nods, kisses his hair, and leaves him alone with his ache and Elio at the window with his back turned.


	15. Chapter 15

Most nights, Oliver watched his feet as he walked the questionable route home from his day job. On this particular Tuesday, there was sidewalk construction along a four-lane highway. The detour led him past a motley crowd congregated, listening to a street guitarist.

Good music. But Oliver didn't usually stop for that kind of thing. He maneuvered around the audience and ventured a brief peek over their heads - tall man's prerogative.

His feet and heart halted. Pale boy illuminated by streetlamps glow.

Dark curls hanging past his eyes as he hunched over a guitar, humming along to his fingers' melody.

Oliver froze. Ached. Rubbed his index finger over his lip for the duration of the song. Studied the musician’s tattered clothes, his filthy Chuck's. His casual nod at his adoring fans.

Finally, the younger man holstered his instrument and the crowd dispersed. Oliver started up a fresh round of slow, deliberate applause, approaching even more carefully.

“Thanks, man,” the musician said, zipping his case.

Oliver lived on a very stringent budget. He didn't waste his coins in outstretched cups. Didn't tip waitresses. Only rarely ate out. But on that night, he pulled a precious $5 bill from his wallet and held it like an offering of peace.

The musician accepted the cash, crumpled it, and tossed it between Oliver's steel-toed boots.

“Can’t you read?”

Once Oliver got over the initial shock, he saw the sign, handwritten with black Sharpie on cardboard: NO TIPS.

Then, the musician met his eyes.

“Shit.”

Lacking a better word to sum up an 11-year reunion, Oliver settled for a chuckle and, “Hey.”

“Oliver? Damn. Wow.” Elio scratched his neck.

His smile still vivid and devastating in that old way. Oliver glanced up the street to ease the unexpected flash in his chest.

“Shit, man. I see you never stopped growing.”

That earned a tension-shattering laugh.

“Look at you. Mr. Home Depot, huh?”

Oliver glanced down at the uniform apron he'd forgotten - again - to leave on its hook. “Yeah. I guess so.”

Elio, on the other hand, appeared every bit the street dweller. Not that it was Oliver’s business. He hadn’t seen the guy in over a decade. They weren’t little kids anymore.

“You want to go…” Elio shrugged. “I don’t know. Grab something?”

A meal for old time sakes didn’t sound like a punishment, but Oliver didn’t defy his budget lightly. There was one place he could spend the crumpled fiver and feed them both. Somewhere that would be open as late as it was.

As they walked, he asked, “Hey, Elio. Why no tips?”

“I don’t trade music for money. Got to keep it pure, you know?”

Oliver nodded, although he had no idea. If he had a talent like that, he'd cash in every chip.

Seated in the Taco Bell, watching Elio eat like a starving animal, Oliver asked, “So, where are you staying?”

He told himself he was making conversation.

“Here and there,” Elio sniffed loudly and spoke through his next bite. "I stay with this guy, Gideon, sometimes."

Oliver ignored the sharp twinge. It was stupid. Elio had never belonged to him. He had some weird teenage obsession with a little kid. Long over. Oliver wasn’t a teenager. Elio still looked younger than he was, but he wasn’t a little kid.

“Going solo, though,” Elio announced letting a bit of food drop onto his paper wrapping. “You? Got a girl or whatever?"

"Hm. Well, you look good.”

Oliver scoffed and shrugged as Elio slid a cigarette between his lips. He couldn’t afford a gym membership, but his work in the lumberyard consisted entirely of lifting. If he didn’t own a mirror, he could gauge by the daily come-ons that he didn’t look bad.

Elio looked like a rock n’ roller. He smelled like he hadn’t showered in weeks. There was still endearing frailty to his beauty, but he’d developed a confident swagger that tossed Oliver off guard.

He ended his meal with a belch, sat back, and folded his arms behind his head. “So, Home Depot? No girl. What else?”

Oliver didn't say so, but he also worked at Walgreens on the weekends and most nights at this security company. He was taking night classes at the community college, as well. He had this idea for a product but his dream of a business/engineering degree was decades in the future at the current snail's pace of his education. A few paltry credits at a time.

He kept all those details to himself, answering instead, "Not much."

“Let’s go somewhere.”

For some dumb reason, visions of Mexico or Tahiti flashed behind Oliver’s eyes.

“You live nearby?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Idiot.

Not like he had Tahiti funds. He just barely had Taco Bell money.

“You got roommates or anything?” Elio asked.

Oliver shook his head. He’d been in his new place for around 3 months. It was his first time not sharing the lease with a bunch of variably dependable guys.

“Nice." Elio smiled. "Why don’t you show me how you live?”

Oliver ate the rest of his chalupa in silence, chest tightening with every bite as if it was his last meal.

His place was no penthouse, but it was his. He’d already brought over a couple of girls. Not one-nighters, but no one he would have called. He left that up to them.

No guys. Didn’t exactly date guys. Not that he wouldn’t. Just never felt quite gay enough to enter their clubs alone.

Girls are easy. Predictable. No questions necessary.

Oliver's a literal giant, so he has to be careful with them, but girls are easy to read, always willing, always into him. In fact, Oliver never approached girls. He waited in the shallow water for the brave ones to ask him out. It worked throughout high school and went right on working.

The few guys who’d tried it had gotten lucky and turned into quick filthy alley fucks. All of it was enjoyable enough in the moment but never satisfying the way sex is supposed to be.

Elio stood in the middle of Oliver’s studio apartment, taking slow inventory while Oliver rushed over and slid in one of his 3 CDs. Then he slipped his hands into his pockets and awaited Elio's verdict, like a nest-building bird hoping for a potential mate's approval.

The kid slung his guitar case onto the floor beside the sofa and said, “You ought to see Gideon’s place, man. Hella tight.”

“Gideon is your—“

“Oh, he’s a piece of shit, but his place is off the chain.”

Oliver winced. Maybe it was the slang. Or the way Elio floated around the room eyeballing and touching everything. When he pulled out a cigarette, Oliver shook his head and said, “You can’t… Sorry. Can’t smoke in here.”

"Fascists." Elio pinned the smoke behind his ear and went on inspecting while Oliver watched him.

“No TV, man?”

No reply required. Elio could see there was no TV. There was a second-hand boombox on one of the shelves. And books. Everywhere.

“You ought to see Gideon’s TV. 50-inch beauty. Probably making up for his cock.” Elio laughed to himself. “Got, like, 8 cars.”

Oliver nodded, holding his breath as if Elio’s every word was a punch in the gut.

“Look at you, man. There’s no fucking way you don’t have a girlfriend, Oliver. What’s the deal, man? You’re what? 30?”

“26.”

“It’s about time for you to settle down. Get a family. A dog. A fence. All that shit.”

The thought had crossed Oliver’s mind though not with any seriousness and even less desire. The last girl he dated (read: fucked) had brought up kids. Oliver stopped talking to her.

He’d given himself a few months “date break” after that. Never craved sex the way some guys do. Performed because he was supposed to. If he ever got married it would be the same way.

“I’ll let you in on a secret, Ollie. Pussy’s all right but girls never want to pay. So I don’t waste my time. Dudes, on the other hand, they'll pay whatever you ask, but they have a shitload of weird fucking ideas. Sometimes I wonder what the hell is wrong with guys, you know?”

Oliver couldn’t argue, so he didn’t try.

Elio nodded, agreeing with himself. Then, he said, “They locked you up.”

There was another fact that didn’t need substantiating. Elio must have known about Oliver’s stint in juvie. With his record of violence and the fact that he’d shattered a man’s face, he was just lucky he was so far underage or they might have thrown away the key. It was like the guys in his ward always said, ‘a broke white dude ain’t no different from any other n@^#*&.’

“I always thought you’d come back.”

Oliver stopped breathing.

“Stupid, right?” Elio laughed and picked up a book and flipped it open. 

“Figured you’d… just find me, you know?”

Oliver nearly choked on his spit. His jaw fell open, but nothing came out at first. After a few breaths, he managed to ask, “Did they move you?”  
“Nah. Flip got out of the hospital and moved in with us … That was bullshit. After a while, I went solo.”

“You ran away? When?”

“I was like, 13, or something. Just got sick of it, you know?”

“Why didn’t you—“

What, tell someone? Oliver had tried to tell the shitty underpaid counselors what was going on at Marcia’s. They accused him of making stuff up to justify his violence. So, yeah. No surprise that Elio didn’t want to put up with people’s doubt, disbelief, questions, and prodding.

This time, when Elio lit the cigarette, Oliver didn’t object. They stood on opposite sides of the room, appraising each other over, locked in an unwavering gaze.

Elio finished his smoke, crossed the room, passing by Oliver to flick the butt into the sink. Then, he began rummaging through the cabinets. “What do you got to drink around here?”

Oliver didn’t waste his money on liquor. He had a cheap six-pack of beer and water. He reached up into the cabinet for glasses and Elio wrapped himself around - a hand pawing Oliver's crotch. The other kneading his ass.

“Um…”

“Let’s play, Oliver.”

Play. Oliver stared down into Elio’s eyes. The boy was plenty big enough now. Filthy and tough. Oliver could toss him against the wall. The kid would bounce and laugh.

How many times had Oliver dreamed of this? They were always kids in the dreams, but it was a second chance? Elio was breath-haltingly close. Time and distance had dissolved all of the weird brother energy and left only heat.

Redemption.

Oliver leaned in. Elio rose on his toes to split the difference. Before they could meet, he blew fetid burrito and ash breath onto Oliver’s lips: “Fifty bucks for head, okay?”

Time stopped.

“If you got $100, we can do whatever you want.”

Oliver backed up enough to look at Elio’s face. Could it be a joke?

“What? Hey, don’t judge me, Oliver. You got Home Depot. I got my gig.”

In his mind, Oliver was delivering Elio to the manager’s office, helping him apply for an honest job. “Did you get your diploma?

“Aw, fuck.” Elio detached his tentacles. “You know what? Forget it. Weird to see you, man.”

“What? You’re just going to—“

“Did you think I came here to play catch up?” He swept up his guitar and started for the door.

“Wait.” Oliver cursed his urgency and then squashed his pride. “Okay.”

Elio stopped, eyes narrowed.

Completely without a plan, Oliver nodded. “Okay. 100.”

A thousand. A million. Just don’t leave. Not like this.

He could scrape together Elio’s price and pretend this was the usual way of old friends.

Elio hesitated another moment before he leaned his guitar case on the door. He draped his jacket on top, pulled off his Stones shirt, and dropped it on the floor.

The colors on his tattooed left arm popped against his paper-white skin. A melting clock. A squid. A hundred tiny images and script Oliver would have to study. Elio was slender but not skinny. Defined. A sculpture of a boy. He rubbed his hand down his chest, smiling, approaching Oliver like some half-tame beast with hungry, hazel eyes.

He placed his hands on the center of Oliver’s chest. Must have felt his heart pounding out of control. Elio leaned up and nipped Oliver's chin.

Then he grabbed the back of Oliver’s head and tilted it down so he could brush their lips together.

Despite his best intentions, Oliver’s body ignited like a roman candle. Arms dutifully at his sides.

Elio laughed. “I can’t even tell you how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

When he tugged at the hem of Oliver’s shirt, Oliver caught his hands.

“Would you... take a shower first?

It was a classic stall tactic, but also necessary. With Elio’s shirt off, his stink was pervasive. Elio went right on laughing as he opened and stepped out of his pants. No shorts. Thin boy, fat cock.

He stroked himself slowly and licked his impish grin. “Why don't you come with?”

As if magnetized, Oliver took a single step. Then he caught himself and shook his head. Elio strode backward while Oliver watched him disappear into the bathroom.

"Shit."

This whole thing was slipping off the rails. He ran both hands through his hair and blew out a lungful of steam.

There were Elio's clothes strewn about, stinking like hell, begging to be incinerated.

Oliver loaded them into a garbage bag, hoisted it over his shoulder, and carted it out of the door, down the street.

Twenty minutes later, he was sitting in the dark on a bench failing to make sense of the past couple of hours when Elio marched by wearing one of Oliver’s t-shirts. It skimmed his knees and hung off like an elephant’s skin.

Oliver stood and shouted, “Hey!”

Elio spun around, hissed, and charged. “You fucking robbed me.”

He dropped his guitar and swung both arms, wildly. Oliver caught his limbs and held him still.

“I didn’t. Elio. Stop. Look.”

The sign overhead read: Suds Laundromat. Slowly, he composed himself. 

“Was it that bad?”

“It was pretty bad.”

Elio jerked his arms away and smoothed down the shirt. He picked up his guitar and perched on the bench. He crossed his legs crossed and stuck a lit cigarette between his lips. He played the blues until his clothes were clean.

He didn't change back to them at the laundromat, opting instead to let Oliver fold and carry them. With the door to the studio locked behind them, Elio kicked off his shoes and removed a lace from his sneakers. He tied it around his waist, transforming Oliver's t-shirt into a kind of cinched dress. He tilted his head, fluffed his hair, and smiled.

Oliver glanced at and then away from his long, hairless legs.

“What do you think?”

An uncomfortable chuckle didn’t answer the question for either of them.

“Lot of guys ask me to put on make-up and shit. You like that?”

Oliver shrugged. He definitely didn’t love the implications of ‘a lot of guys.’

“I could run down to the store and get some lipstick if you want.”

All Oliver wanted was to stop feeling trapped inside his crawling skin. Elio led him to a chair, straddled his lap, and sucked his neck like he was trying to mark Oliver for eternity. His dollar store coconut and verbena shampoo in his hair sweet and sharp.

Oliver palmed his ass and otherwise, let him lead. Grinding and moaning like he already loved it. Clearly, a professional.

Talented.

Oliver stood and placed Elio on his bare feet.

“I’m sorry, I…”

Elio raised his arms and stuck his nose into his pits.

“No. I have work in an hour. I need to sleep."

Elio’s smile spread smooth as butter. “You want to go to bed?”

“I think, maybe, this isn’t—“

“It’s okay, Oliver. A lot of guys get nervous.”

“What?“

“It's not that different, being with a guy.” Elio freed the flap of Oliver’s   
buckle. “It's just fucking, man.”

Elio was unwittingly offering an out. Oliver could just pretend to be homophobic and walk away. Only, he'd been with guys. It had been a while, but he was no virgin, in any sense of the word. He was not scared of Elio. This had been a fantasy about this for years. It was time to quit dreaming and take.

He lifted Elio and tossed him onto the bed, and then opened his pants. Elio wrestled with Oliver’s oversized shirt, but it was Oliver who tugged it free, growling, “Off.”

Elio laughed and tossed it into his face.

Oliver hurled pants, shirt around the studio without any concern where they landed. Then, he stood back and admired the marvel in his bed. A boy made of marble, a lazy grin chiseled on his perfect face.

Oliver peeled back the blankets. Elio crawled under with him, snuggling in with skin cool as a lizard. Slim and long and still so much smaller. A smoky peck and Oliver spread his palm at the base of Elio’s spine. His erection pressed to his thigh, just like when they were kids.

What had Flip done to him?

For years, Oliver had suppressed sick fantasies, failing to keep his imagination in check. Now, that he was with Elio again, Flip was only one among a sea of faceless dicks lining up in Oliver's twisted head to gangbang this kid.

Not that Oliver would ever do anything like that, but fuck if the idea didn't make his cock hard as diamond.

That was it. He was a sick bastard who didn’t deserve Elio, back then, now or ever.

The only decent thing to do was keep his hands above the waist and hope Elio would take whatever he wanted. As if on command, the boy began rolling in waves. Moaning, straining to be closer. Whimpering. Then sobbing. Shuddering through his orgasm. Actually jizzing between them, like he'd been too small to do when they were younger.

Through it all, Oliver held him, whispering, “I got you.”

Still winded, Elio’s eyes opened. Oliver wiped an errant curl from his sweaty face.

“Shit." Elio chuckled. "Guess I ought to pay you."

“It's on the house.”

“I don’t do that, Oliver. Fuck for free.”

“I get it.” Oliver traced his cheekbone with his thumb. He followed the flawless angle of his jawline. “You can still crash here. If you want.”  
The gears behind Elio’s eyes were nearly visible as he calculated.

“Just stay,” Oliver said and kissed his nose. “Long as you want. For old time sake. That's a thing.”

Even before Oliver opens his eyes, he squeezes them tighter, reveling in the soft hand working him slowly. A familiar stroke. A familiar voice murmuring, “That’s right, baby.”

His eyes fling open and Anne smiles down. His sweatpants are around his thighs, granting her full access to his full erection.  
Oliver grunts. He tries to roll away and cover himself.

“Relax, man,” Elio says, standing at Anne’s shoulder. “You got to just relax and enjoy it. Let her do her thing.”

“No.”

Anne freezes, sucks in a short breath, and backs away. “I’m so… I thought --”

Without fixing Oliver's pants or his diaper, she pulls the blanket up to his belly. She snakes out of the room, leaving Oliver shivering, even though his ex-wife keeps it too warm for comfort.


	16. Chapter 16

“Daddy, it doesn’t make sense.” Liv rests a palm on Oliver’s brow, as if measuring his temperature. “At least not yet. You’d need 24-hour care.”

“I have the money.”

“Yes, you do. But it’s not about that. Mom wants to do this for you.” She checks over her shoulder and despite the closed door, lowers her voice. “I think she wants to make it up to you about ... you know.”

“Oh yeah.” Elio stands at Olivia’s side, grinning.” She wants to make up all right. She wants to make your dad come all over himself.”

Oliver squeezes his eyes shut, but fails to shut out Elio's or his daughter's voices.

She continues, “You just need to become a bit more self-sufficient before we can consider getting you your own place. Even with a nurse.”

Liv is diplomatic. She means at all self-sufficient. Even working with the OT, speech, and physical therapists, Oliver's results have been frustratingly negligible. He can stick his toothbrush in his mouth, but not clean his teeth. He can draw an embarrassing crooked line. Still can’t walk or stand.

"What you need to do is quit moping and trying to run away because a beautiful woman touched your meat,” Elio says. 

Oliver mumbles, “Shut up.”

“She missed that fucking moose cock, Oliver. Can you blame her?”

“Shut up,” Oliver replies loud enough to drown out Elio’s voice.

“You should have seen some of the ogres that touched my meat over the years. You don't see me crying about it.”

“Shut. Up!”

“I’m just saying, if you’re going to be such a little bitch about everything—“

“Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up.”

Liv's eyes are saucer-wide, her voice calm when she asks, “Do you hear someone, Dad?”

Hear him, see him, feel his warm breath, smell the alcohol seeping through his pores when he gets too close. Elio is in the room, whether he is or not. Right now, it'd be good if he'd jump out of a window. Olivia follows the direction of Oliver’s glare at the boy covering his giggle like a preschooler who tattled.

“It’s okay, Daddy. Remember what Dr. Carver said? Your brain got scrambled and then it shut itself down. Any weird hallucinations or ticks are part of a natural reboot.”

“No." Oliver shakes his head. "Stressed. Want to move.”

His tongue is growing fat, cleaving to the insides of his cheeks. When he tries too hard to speak, it all goes wrong.

“Okay,” Liv says, not even pretending to be convinced. “I understand, Dad. Soon. Just not yet. Okay?”

Oliver growls, low in his throat like some lesser primate.

“It’s not time for you to be on your own. You’re not ready.”

The closest projectile is a thick charcoal pencil. With his strengthening right hand, Oliver manages a paltry toss. The pencil flies a few feet and rolls pitifully across the floor. He follows up that tantrum with a swipe of the arm over his desk, sending a few practice papers fluttering. The effort leaves him winded, but with a tight, satisfied nod. 

“Dude, chill.” 

Liv purses her lips and shakes her head. 

Oliver fills his lungs and pronounces his daughter’s verdict, “Bullshit.” 

“Can we not do this tonight, Dad?” Her hands are on her hips now. “Ash will be here shortly. I just want to have a nice dinner. I just want you to be nice to him.”

“Nice.” Oliver sticks out his tongue and blows like a stubborn toddler. 

“Daddy. Please, behave.”

Olivia steps out of the room, leaving behind her 3-year-old brother. All this time, little Connor, Chambers and Anne's son, has been in the corner, silently drawing with a hand a hundred times more stable than Oliver’s.

“You. Go.”

Big brown eyes blink up at the huge man in the wheelchair. 

“Go with her.”

Connor doesn’t move. He sits there staring. 

“Out. Do you hear me? Get out of here.”

When the boy still doesn’t budge, Oliver bears his teeth and makes the noise he’d use to shoo a meddlesome cat, violently spraying saliva through his unwieldy lips. He sits back in his chair and waits for the snot-nosed proof of his ex-wife’s infidelity to scramble. 

Instead, the child's shocked expression dissolves into a loud, merciless squall of tears. It’s not the result he was going for, but Oliver sniffs, satisfied. 

The boy tosses back his head, bears his throat, and howls until his father slinks into the room and picks him up. Chambers glances at Oliver, but avoids eye contact, like always.

It would be so easy to tell this schmuck what Anne did. The unsolicited handjob. The fucking audacity of that woman. Let the chips fall and crush her head. It’s been weeks since it happened. She’s left him alone since then. Oliver is inching toward getting of this place. He lets Chambers take his brat and go.

The door closes and Elio kicks him in the shin. “You’re a real dick, Oliver.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, fuck you, you whining, useless sack of shit. You just spat on that kid.”

“I did not spit on him.”

“No, you hissed like some kind of animal and your spit landed on his face.”

“That’s not my fault. They shouldn’t let him in here.”

“That’s your excuse?”

“Fuck off.”

“Make me.” Elio towers over Oliver in his chair, no longer strapped in, but unable to flee.

The only refuge is to close his eyes, cover his ears and tuck his chin to his chest, shouting, “Fuck off, Elio. Leave me alone.”

Elio grabs his arms and pushes them to his lap. For all his grunting and straining, Oliver can’t control of his own arms. It's a full-body arm wrestling match and the ghost of this spindly kid is going to win.

“No. No. Daddy!” Liv kneels in front of Oliver’s chair, occupying the space where Elio’s legs should be. Using her thumb to draw up her father's eyelids, she shouts, “Somebody call 911! He's having a seizure.”


	17. Chapter 17

Despite the thigh resting on his full bladder, Oliver didn't budge. He lay perfectly still in the warm cocoon of bodies and blankets. There just enough streetlamp light to study the tattoos on Elio’s left arm. The Dali clock, intricate birds of paradise, cartoon characters and snaking between it all an ornate tentacle - bright purple. 

Running a hand over the skin, the suction cups answered his palm in relief. If he sat up for a closer look, the movement might wake his guest.

Eventually, the head cutting off circulation to Oliver's fingers stirred. Without opening his eyes, Elio yawned noisily and stretched his spine like a cat before he mumbled, “Thought you had to work.”

“I missed my shift.”

“Does that mean we can play?” Elio’s hips eased forward, pressing his urgency against Oliver’s thigh.

“It means I have a couple of hours before I get to my other job.”

It was the first time in his life Oliver had missed a day of work. Usually, he was the guy who picked up his co-workers shifts. He’d hesitated a few minutes before making the call, but it wasn’t a difficult decision. Laying in bed, holding Elio was a fantasy. If it meant eating beans for a month, it was worth it.

When Elio finally batted his eyes open, he smiled sleepily. “You know, you still look like a superhero.”

“Listen, did you always have these?”

Oliver ran his hand over the tentacled arm again, more closely examining the quarter-sized raised scars. Elio answered with a devilish grin and a crotch grab - Oliver's cue to vacate the bed. 

"You're so boring," Elio said and sat cross-legged, naked and smoking while Oliver whipped together a meal. 

“You know, you shouldn’t do that in here.” 

“Fascism.” Elio doused the cigarette with a glob of spit between his fingertips. “Are you going to leave me?”

“I have to work.”

“Is that all you do?”

“I also have school, but not tonight.”

“Seriously?” Elio sighed and hopped to his feet, not bothering to dress. “If you’re not here … I get bored easily, Oliver. What am I supposed to do?”

“You could read.”

There was no shortage of books. Books on shelves, on tables, neatly stacked on the floor. 

“Have you read all these?”

“Not all. Most.” 

“What about this?” Elio picked a book at random and began to read.

It took a few moments for Oliver to recall where he’d been seated, how the words had first struck him, like ideas shared by a friend in conversation. “Marquez.”

Elio confirmed with the front cover and chuckled. He went on quizzing until Oliver called him to the table. After the first bite, Elio pointed his fork and said, “This is Joe’s culinary genius?”

Oliver chuckled. Across the years, Elio had remembered about Oliver’s grandfather's canned masterpieces. While Oliver ate in silence, Elio prattled on about the cities he'd seen since their youth.

While he hand-washed the dishes, Elio attached to Oliver’s hip like a gently undulating barnacle and nuzzled his bicep. “Skip it. Stay home and fuck me.”

At Walgreens, there was wiggle room to call in from time to time. If Oliver missed a shift at Home Depot, there were ten other guys lined up to take his job - for good. 

“It’s an eight-hour shift. I’ll be home right after.” Without thinking, he kissed Elio’s forehead. Then, held his breath and waited for the fallout. When no complaint came, he touched Elio’s chin and pecked his lips.  
“Okay?”

Elio rolled his pretty hazel eyes and nodded.

Oliver jogged to work smiling like a maniac. He clocked in and tied on his orange apron, grinning like he’d struck gold. There wasn't a tool in aisle 14 that could have chiseled the smile off his face.

Hours sailed by as Oliver cheerfully assisted customers with their lumber needs. Despite never having built anything other than a pre-fabricated birdhouse with Joe when he was 8, Oliver answered questions and lugged boards and spent most of the day wondering what Elio was doing. 

The kid might have been burning his place to the ground, or throwing a party, or jerking off in Oliver’s bed. That last prospect was only a problem in the level of distraction it caused. When his mind strayed in those directions, Oliver reminded himself not to get his hopes too high. Neither of them had made any promises. They’d simply slept together - literally. It was an improbable second chance. Take it day by day.

One thing was certain, though. All this restraint was temporary. Eventually, Oliver would fuck the shit out of Elio Perlman. Of course, he would. But the conditions had to be just right. Rose petals on the mattress. Scented candles. Goofy romantic shit like that. Maybe he'd even spring for some glitzy hotel. However it happened, Oliver refused to be another dick shoved in Elio’s face, and he sure as shit was going to be a john.

“Hey, yo, Ollie. Gloria called the office. You want to grab her shift?

Usually, he'd have accepted in a heartbeat. Oliver smiled and said, “No, thanks.”

With an hour on the clock, the inevitable happened. Come-ons were pretty much a weekly occurrence. This cougar was the usual suspect: a 50-something divorcee who sidled up close enough to press her boob job against Oliver’s arm.

“You know, you are really something,” she cooed

He smiled and tried to inconspicuously back up a few inches. “Thank you.” 

“You look like you could unclog every pipe in my system.”

Oliver chuckled and checked the aisle for an easy escape route. Older women were wily predators who always knew how to time their attacks. No witnesses.

Generally, it was luck of the draw whether Oliver was in the mood to put out or not. There was nothing in it for him but the orgasm, which he could accomplish on his own with less headache. Still, more often than not, he obliged. On this occasion, he thanked his suitor and made an excuse about needing to help someone as he scuttled away.

When his shift finally ended, Oliver jogged the entire way back to his place. Elio would probably wear himself out trying to get Oliver into bed. Oliver would counter with a suggestion that they go out. He’d shower and change and put on his good shirt.

It was such a nice night. They could take a walk or grab an ice cream or something. Oliver didn’t usually do movies, but if he skipped lunch for a week, he could justify it. 

At his door, in a haze of haste and excitement, he fumbled and nearly dropped the keys. The door opened on darkness. He entered quietly, in case his guest was asleep. It was, after all, 11 PM. Then, again, Elio had slept until nearly 2 in the afternoon. Could he really be asleep again?

“Elio?”

No answer. No sound from the bathroom. No sign of him.

Except all the drawers in the kitchen hanging open. The drawers of Oliver’s second-hand dresser overturned. His clothes scattered on the floor. There was nothing of value to steal, but after he'd ransacked the place, Elio had settled on the stereo and scrammed.

There was no way he’d get more than 20 bucks for it.

“You little…”

Grinding his teeth and wiping his stinging nose, Oliver kicked over a stack of books. His face unbearably hot, he stood in the middle of the apartment, ran both hands through his hair, and fantasized about murdering a skinny, little thief.

There was no way to make something good with a broken piece of garbage like that. Only an idiot would expect anything other than exactly what Oliver got.

“Fuck him.”

Two days earlier, Oliver had no idea where Elio Perlman was. Hadn’t expected to ever see him again. And he’d been fine. After one day in the guy's presence, Oliver was on the verge of getting himself locked up again. If he didn’t let off some steam, he’d lose it and hurl a chair through a window. Or do something far worse and even stupider. 

“Fuck him.”

Closing his eyes, breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth - the way they’d taught him in Anger Management - that helped a little. Counting backwards from 100 helped a little more. It was time for the third step: a long, brutal run. No matter if it was nearly midnight. 

In the process of changing into his sweatsuit, a business card fell from the back pocket of Oliver's jeans. Color consultant: Candace McCall.

The Cougar.

Oliver didn’t even feel her slip it into his pocket.

“Jesus. These people.”

He dropped the card into the trashcan. Sighed. Shook his head. Crossed the room. Then returned and dug it out again. 

She answered groggily after three rings. 

“Um, hi. I’m sorry if it’s late.”

“Who is this?”

“Sorry. This is Oliver.”

“Who the hell is Oliver?”

She’d never even asked his name. Might have seen it on the apron, but apparently didn’t remember. 

“From Home Depot.”

“Oh…” Her smile was audibly greasy. “The pipe cleaner.”

If she was like the rest of these self-sufficient older women, she’d offer to pay for the service, but Oliver wasn’t a whore, unlike some people.

Oliver, the pipe cleaner, took down her address and estimated an hour to get there. She offered to call him a taxi, but he declined. There was still a whole shitload of steam to blow off before he arrived. These women assumed he’d be well-mannered at the door and mildly aggressive in the bedroom. He could oblige, but not when he was wound up and ready to rip off the next head he saw.

When he returned from his bootycall, there'd be the apartment to straighten, but the idea of cleaning up after Elio made Oliver itch to torch the whole place. 

He shaved, showered under scalding water, put on his decent shirt and splashed on cologne. He’d be sweaty again in a couple of hours. This kind of woman appreciated effort. Also, how often did he have any reason to dress up? The act of buttoning the shirt and running a comb over his hair made him feel more like a person than a rage machine. 

This was the right choice. 

Another deep breath, appraising the tidy asshole in the mirror and mumbling once more, as if it was a mantra: “Fuck him.”

The woman’s address was on the other side of town and it was well after buses stopped running. A long walk in the foul city air was doctor's orders. A pillar of steam shot up from a sewage vent. By the time he finished sticking it to this old lady, Oliver’s head would be clear again. 

He navigated the dark street, somewhat absent-mindedly, practicing his stance and what he’d say over the inevitable drinks. Elio Perlman was no one. Just some kid he'd met years ago. 

“Fuck him.”

Before Oliver even rounded the corner of North Street, the soft sound of music rose met him. Still, as it grew louder, the pop singing gave him no reason to pause until he discovered a filthy, homeless woman crouched over a boom box. 

Surely, SONY had only manufactured more than one of that particular stereo. Nevertheless, the coincidence stopped his feet.

“Hey! Where did you get —“

Before he’d finished asked, the woman screeched, “Mine,” and ran off like a wild creature.

Oliver hesitated, looking left and right up the street before he took off after her. It was no trouble catching the woman but he screeched to a halt as she sped past the bushes bordering a park. On the other side was a mid-city shanty village overrun with ragged tents and those shadow people nobody likes to look at. 

Oliver crossed the street to avoid those people. He was always a single paycheck away from becoming one of them.

He stood on the sidewalk, breathing hard, as if the bushes were an impenetrable forcefield. In the dark, the woman approached a tent and begin pummeling its side with the boombox, yelling, “Get out! Get out of there. You put the devil on me.”

Oliver's fists curled when Elio's head stuck out of the tent. The scoundrel's reply was inaudible, but the crack of the stereo across his skull was plenty loud. The woman pointed at Oliver and hurled the boombox at Elio as he staggered to his feet. He stumbled once before dropping the stereo and darting away into oncoming traffic. 

Tamping down his disgust at the stench and the bodies swarming like something from a Michael Jackson video, Oliver charged between the tents, accidentally overturning a stroller full of foul blankets. He halted at the edge of the street, jaw hanging wide open as a Ford pick-up skidded to a halt three inches from Elio. 

Oliver’s heart punched his ribs. The driver and the maniac kid stared at each other for a chilling moment. Elio glanced back at Oliver and ran again.

"Idiot."

Once the traffic cleared, it took less than a minute for Oliver to apprehend the thief and shoved his back against the brick wall of a bank. 

“Why?”

Oliver had been planning the whole time to bash the asshole’s head against the pavement. That ineffectual question on his pitiful sounding voice made him bunch Elio's shirt in his fists and shake him like a misbehaving child. 

Elio clutched his hand in both hands, clawing his hair into his face. “Just leave me alone, Oliver. Leave me alone, man. Leave me alone.”

He yanked free and rather than flee again, slammed himself against the wall - once, twice. He might have continued if Oliver hadn’t grabbed him. 

"Let go!"  
Elio raged like a cat in a bag, chomping as if he’d bite off Oliver’s face. He kicked and tried to claw until Oliver pinned his arms at his side. Then Elio butted his forehead against Oliver's chin. Then all at once, he went slack enough to collapsed if Oliver hadn't caught him with one arm. With the other hand, he tapped his cheek. 

“Elio?”

“Fuck off.” This time without much conviction.

Ten minutes ago, Oliver had wanted to murder this boy. Now, he was lifting him like a small child and carrying Elio back to the apartment. He opened the door, kicked his way through the mess Elio had left, and laid the culprit on his bed.

No plan.  
Standing in the dark, staring down at a complete maniac who was going to drive Oliver insane as well.  
If Elio tried to get up and leave, what then?  
But he lay there staring at the ceiling, chanting beneath his shallow breath: “Don’t you fucking touch me. Do not fucking touch me.”


	18. Chapter 18

Oliver’s hands are folded neatly in his lap. He breathes softly through his nostrils and focuses on the framed diploma on the wall. The doctor’s voice has become a quiet drone in the background along with Olivia’s concerned glances and arm squeezes. 

Likewise, Oliver ignores how Elio has plunked down side-saddle in the doctor’s lap with an arm over the man’s shoulder, gaze boring into his ear.

“I’m telling you. Fucking disgusting. How are you supposed to take this guy seriously with fricking dandruff caked in his ear fuzz? Let’s blow this place, Oliver.”

Oliver swallows and redoubles his study of the diploma's calligraphy.

“So, is that what you’re going to do? Huh?” Elio leans forward with his elbows on the doctor’s desk. “You going to get rid of me? See if I fucking care. Like it’s some picnic living in your head, you repressed fuck.”

Oliver sucks in a sharp breath to keep from cursing back. 

“I can tell you now, Mr. Gelding,” the doctor says, addressing patient (rather than advocate) for the first time. “Medicating will be a lot less stressful for everyone, including your daughter here, who has her own life to live.”

“That’s not—“ Liv's gentle wrist squeezes make Oliver want to brain her. “Are you okay?”

He nods tightly.

“Do you understand what I’m suggesting, Mr. Gelding?” 

Oliver blinks at the doctor’s condescending tone. You don’t need a medical degree to know when someone is a shithead. 

Liv fans the papers on the desk and repeats the purpose for each prescription. One to combat depression. Another to end the hallucinations. Yet another anti-seizure medication. An update to his blood thinner script. The most likely side effects of this cocktail would be vertigo and lethargy.

“But it’s not like you’re running marathons,” the doctor says, grinning at his joke.

Even Liv cringes, but she doesn't disagree. “Daddy, visions and voices ... it's not good. If we let this persist, it could only get harder for you to differentiate between what’s in your head and…”

“What’s real.”

Thanks a lot, shit head. 

“He has therapy sessions a few times a week,” Liv says. “Would he be able to continue —“

“Oh, he won’t have energy for any of that, I’m afraid.” The doctor straightens the pen on his desk so that it lays perfectly perpendicular to Oliver’s file.

“You know, I’ll bet you anything this guy likes it up the ass.” That's Elio's helpful contribution. “You can just tell. He's into, like, huge linebacker types.”

A chill runs down Oliver’s spine and lands in his hands as a stinging numbness. 

Elio continues, “He would have been completely into you back before you turned into the sentient soup you are now.”

“Okay,” Oliver murmurs. 

Liv nods. “I think it’s for the best, Daddy.”

What does this girl want from him? He’s already said he’ll take the fucking meds. If it means getting rid of Elio. If it means he never walks again.   
So be it.   
What good is walking when you’re going insane?


	19. Chapter 19

Elio sat bolt upright, but his head hung, greasy hair hanging in damp tendrils over his eyes. Oliver took a loud breath and asked, “Are you high?”

In response, Elio heaved and spat up in his own lap. Nothing substantial. It might have been hours since he last ate, but spittle dribbled down one side of his mouth and hung from his chin.

“Jesus.”

“Shut up, Oliver. Shut up and fucking die!”

Oliver rubbed his forehead, searching out of his window, as if the darkness could offer some clarity.

“You can’t make me stay here.”

Considering that Oliver was a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier, there wasn’t much he couldn’t make Elio do, if that was his choice. The kid swung his legs over the side of the bed, hoisted himself to his feet, staggered toward the door. Oliver tensed but didn't block the door.  
What good would it do to keep Elio sequestered? 

He took two steps and then crumpled to the floor. When Oliver approached, Elio wildly swung his fists. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Let me put you in bed.”

“Leave me alone.”

Elio crawled the few yards back to the bed, hauled up his arms, and passed out with his head and torso on the mattress. His legs dragged the floor. 

Oliver waited a few seconds before testing his pulse: imperceptible at his wrist. Weak but present at his throat. With a loud sigh, he wiped a palm down his face and sat at the table, never taking an eye from Elio.

“Quit looking at me, creepy.”

The corner of Oliver’s lip quirked. There was no taming this kid. Maybe, there was no helping him either. Still, Oliver crept over, kneeled, and removed Elio’s shoes. He placed them neatly under the bed, helped Elio climb under the sheets. Tucking him in, Oliver removed the soiled, sharply liquor-reeking top blanket and balled it into the hamper. 

“So cold.” Despite the normal room temperature, Elio’s teeth were chattering. He shivered and groaned. 

Oliver lay, fully clothed, on top of the covers, draping an arm over Elio’s chest. “It’s okay.”

Elio moaned as if he was being crushed. “Just let me die.”

“Go to sleep. I’ve got you.”

Eventually, shuddering moans became erratic snores, signaling a safe moment to slip from the bed. After a few minutes of watchful sighing, Oliver placed a call. 

“This good news, Ol? You win the lotto or something?”

“Travis…” Oliver drew a breath to keep his voice from wavering. “I need your help.”

“Most guys don’t call their probation worker in the middle of the night with good news, man. What’s going on?”

Oliver would not have made this call lightly. There was no one else he trusted or knew well enough. And there was a chance that Travis could be helpful. 

“Some of your guys are addicts, right?”

“‘Course, man. Everybody’s some kind of addict. Smoking, drinking...”

“I think this is a little more serious than that. If someone needed help getting clean?”

Travis was silent for a moment. “We talking prescriptions, opiates?”

“I don’t know. I guess whatever he can get his hands on.”

“We’re not talking about you, Ollie. You don’t need that kind of heat three months before your probo is up.”

“No. I have this friend —“

“Yeah. Everybody’s got a friend.”

“It isn’t me, Travis." Oliver scratched his scalp and crossed the room. “You must have some connections in rehab or something. I need to help this guy.”

“Yeah. I got connections.” There was more nervewracking silence for a moment. “I tell you what. Let me come around, take a look at your friend and I’ll see what I come up with.”

Speaking of heat Oliver didn’t need. It was bad enough checking in with this guy every month. Inviting that stress into his home - while the place looked like a tornado had run through - was an unneeded headache.

Oliver was getting his shit together. Elio was a shit-hurler. He was not an alliance to make if Oliver wanted to put chaos and trouble behind him.  
Before he could change his mind, he uttered, “Fine.”

Forty-five minutes later, Travis was standing in the center of Oliver’s studio with his nose turned up to the ceiling. Elio had tumbled out of the bed and inched on his belly until he was huddled in a corner cowering from some invisible menace.

Oliver covered his mouth and waited for a verdict.

Travis shook his head. “Look, Ol, I know where you could score some Naloxone - but this ain't no typical narcotic high. Who knows what the hell this kid is on? And that stuff is for withdrawal anyway. I don't see him getting clean. Do you?”

“Where could I get that?” 

“They’re not giving that stuff away, man. I could probably get some, but it’ll be pricey.”

“What are we talking about?”

“I don't know. Two hundred bucks.”

Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Since when is anything free, Ol?”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

Elio hacked like a choking cat and spewed a fresh glob of slime on the floor.

“Get him a god damn bucket or something.”

Oliver didn’t own a bucket, so he fetched a pan.

“I never seen your place this jacked up, Oliver," Travis said. "Your friend do this?”

Placing the bucket on the floor like he was offering food to a dog, Oliver declined to answer the question.

“You can’t with them?" Travis sighed. "You don't know any junkies, do you? Man, he’ll split your skull while you sleep. Empty your wallet, for a single hit. You understand what I’m saying, Oliver? You’re a dollar bill to him. ”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Travis squinted and regarded Elio before he asked, “What is this kid to you?”

“He’s my brother.”

“My ass, he’s your brother. All white people do not look alike.”

Oliver ran both hands through his hair. Launching into that story was more trauma than he could bear tonight. 

“Look, I don’t give a shit what he is. He ain’t worth getting locked up again. Have you checked to see what he’s on him? His shit gets found in your place, what do you think happens? I ain’t on the clock right now and you know I like you, kid. I can see great things happening for you. But this right here —”

“All right, you know what, Travis. Thank you.”

“I’m trying to help you, Oliver.”

“I know.”

“You can’t save the ones that don’t want it. He don’t look like he wants help.”

Elio gave Travis the finger and yacked in the pan. 

“You want my advice? Ditch his sorry ass in the nearest alley and keep your nose clean.” He slapped Oliver's shoulder. "In three months, your probation is up. Then, you can do what you want."


	20. Chapter 20

Olivia uncurls her fingers, offering her father six pills of varying sizes, shapes, and colors. In her other hand, a glass of water waits to wash them down. 

All the while, Elio sings, “One pill makes you larger and the other one makes you small. And the ones that Mother give you don’t do anything at all.” 

*

The moment the door closed behind Travis, Oliver pulled Elio to his feet and rummaged his pockets. Despite Elio’s attempts to defend his stash, the patdown revealed a half-empty pack of Lucky Strikes, a lighter, pills in an unmarked bottle, and a vial of tape head cleaner.

Elio held out an impatient palm. “That's my shit, Oliver.”

Reluctantly, Oliver returned the cigarettes and the Zippo. Then he marched to the sink. 

“Hey! Wait. You can’t do that.”

Elio tugging his arm was as much deterrent as the wind. 

“Oliver. Hey. Are you going to pay for those?”

Oliver dumped the pills first, bashing them with the bottom of a glass to wash them down. 

“Oh my god, are you fucking crazy?”

It wasn’t until Elio bit his arm that Oliver responded to his protests. The slightest shove sent him hurtling backward against the wall. Elio quickly recovered and grasped at his dwindling supply. Once Oliver had disposed of the substances, he handed Elio the empty containers. 

“You —“ 

For a moment, Oliver took the abuse of Elio pummeling his chest, just to let the kid express his frustration. Eventually, though, he grabbed Elio’s wrists and held him still. 

“You’re hurting me.”

“Then stop fighting.”

“I hate you.” Elio hung his head, arms wide as Oliver could hold them, in a perverse Christlike pose. “I know what you want. I can’t do that, Oliver. I’ve tried. Just let me go, man.”

“Elio.”

“Let me go. It's going to kill me.”

“I’ve got you, okay? I swear, I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

Elio had stopped fighting and was softly weeping. Oliver released his arms and drew him close. He wrapped his arms around and let him cry until a huge damp spot spread across the center of his good shirt. 

* 

For all his fine musicianship, Elio was never much of a singer. He throws back his head and howls like the woman in the original recording: “Remember ... what the dormouse said.”

Oliver clenches his teeth and through sheer force of will stops himself from yelling for Elio to shut up. 

“If I’d been in the doctor’s office,” Anne says with her arms folded. “I could have told you, your father isn’t going to take any of those.” 

She has mostly stayed away since "the incident." They’ve gotten Oliver a part-time nurse for the necessities. But for this moment, his ex-wife and daughter stand officiously debating his medical future. 

“He has to take them, Mom. You saw him. It can’t go on like this.”

“I’m not arguing. What I’m telling you is that Oliver isn’t going to take those pills. You probably don’t remember, but when you were little, he tore his meniscus,” she speaks as if Oliver isn’t sitting two feet away. “He finally let them put him under for the surgery, but he refused to take the pain meds afterward. Just hobbled around, suffering for weeks.”

Olivia regards her father who is focusing his attention out of the window instead of at Elio who has draped himself dramatically over a chair, back and feet over the armrests, mercifully only humming now. As far as anyone else is concerned, if Oliver looks there, he’s looking at nothing. Outside, the leaves are yellowing.

“What if I chop them up,” Liv suggests. “Smash them into one of your Ensures, Daddy?”

“Oh my god, Oliver.” Elio sighs. “Would you just take the fucking things and kill me? I’d rather die than watch this boring shit.”

Oliver could take the pills and become a vegetable again. Then he'd be completely reliant on the nurse. He wouldn’t need support from a daughter whose nose he never wiped. Whose diapers he never touched. He doesn’t deserve Olivia’s care, no matter her reason.

Take the pills and spend the rest of his life in bed.  
With luck, he’d died in a couple of years. With the state of health care and all his damned money, it might be decades.  
A long life in a chair would be bad.  
Longevity in bed would be unbearable.  
Why didn’t they just let him die?

“Why don’t you stop being a baby?” Elio says. “And get over yourself.”

Oliver chuckles quickly at first, inhales deeply, and says what he should have said at the doctor’s office. 

Liv leans closer. “What did you say, Daddy?” 

“Call Natia.”

“The — we already … Dad, I told her we won’t be needing her services anymore.”

“Ask her to come today. Pay double.”

Elio sits up. “Yeah, call her. She’s freaky.”

After a few minutes on the phone, Olivia announces that Natia is a busy woman with other patients and her family, but she has agreed to make time on the weekend. Oliver nods.

“She said to do your homework, whatever that means.”

*

That first day, the worst was slight shakes and cold. Elio was always complaining of cold. Even after Oliver turned the thermostat to 85, Elio sat on the bed with the sheets around his shoulders, shivering.

“What were those pills?”

Elio shrugged. Maybe he was being stubborn. Maybe he didn’t know or care. 

“Do you do anything else?”

Elio scoffed and pulled the covers over his head, sitting there, tittering like a Halloween ghost in the middle of Oliver’s bed.

The following day, Oliver called a co-worker to take his shift at Walgreens. His offer of canned green beans and eggs was met by Elio screaming, “Fuck you! I don’t want to do this. You can't make me do this.”

Oliver placed the plate on the table. 

“Fuck you. Fuck you, man.” 

Elio hurled books as if he was training for MLB. Oliver ducked and covered his head but was still struck by more than half of them. One of the books landed on the table, knocking the food on the floor. 

“Would you knock it off?”

“Fuck you.”

It would have been easy to tackle and hold him down, but as expected, Elio tired himself out, leaned back against the wall, and slumped to the floor. 

He never seemed to sleep for more than 20 minutes at a time and always started awake, staring around the room in a sweaty panic. When his eyes landed on Oliver, he’d let out a relieved breath and mumble, “Fuck you.”

At one point, while Oliver was at the kitchen table reading, Elio leaped to his feet, then stood on the bed, screeching and frantically swiping himself. He tossed a pillow on the floor, squeezed his eyes shut, and cowered close to the wall, yelling, “Oh god! Oh god, no! Don’t let them get me. Don’t let them eat me, Oliver.”

He scraped and clawed at himself, hollering even once Oliver stood at the side of the bed.

“What is it? What do you see?”

“Fucking spiders, man. Oh god.” 

“There are no spiders. Elio, there aren’t any spiders.”

“You’re fucking crazy.”

“Okay. Show me. Where is a spider?”

“Everywhere. They’re everywhere.”

So, Oliver stomped everywhere. He swept the mattress with his arms and bashed his fist on the floor until Elio calmed. Then he stood and offered a hand to help him climb down. Elio clung to the wall, breathing hard, but quieted. 

“Do you want to eat?”

Elio shook his head and looked like he would cry as he scanned the floor for more danger. 

When Oliver insisted Elio eat, soon after, he was rewarded by partly digested PBJ all over his floor. 

Oliver's professor at the community college had announced at the beginning of the semester that two missed classes forfeited the semester.  
He called in sick at Home Depot and received a doubtful grunt from his manager who agreed to bring someone else in on his shift. Once. 

Broth worked better than bread. After a few cautious sips, Elio sat back and shook his head, bemoaning a stomachache. They were down to the last five cans anyway. Oliver drained the liquids from the soups and vegetables and put those in the fridge. 

He never left the apartment, not even to wash clothes. He didn’t let Elio out of his sight long enough to shower. He only snuck to the bathroom when he was certain Elio was asleep. Eventually, the stink from Elio’s vomit and sweat and both of their body odor faded into the background.

When they were down to three cans, Oliver considered calling Travis to make a grocery run and decided against it. 

In the middle of the fifth night, Elio began coughing violently. Oliver had been sleeping at the table with his head on his arms. Exhausted, he sat up and listened until the coughing became choking. Then, he rushed across the room and turned on the bedside lamp. 

There was blood on the pillow. Blood gushing from Elio’s nose and down the sides of his cheek. He coughed up a clot and Oliver helped him sit upright. 

“Cold.”

“All right.” Oliver dabbed his face with the last clean sheet.

Then he settled by Elio’s feet, removed his cruddy socks, and massaged his instep. Within moments, Elio sat, dumbfounded, wiping the rest of the blood away on his sleeve. “Where’d you learn that?”

“Joe.”

If his grandfather could see this, would he be proud of Oliver for taking care of the little guy or outraged that his only grandson was throwing away his life on a hopeless case?

Shuddering, Elio said, “I need to shit.”

Oliver moved aside to make space, but Elio struggled to stand. He helped him to the bathroom and stood outside the door cringing at the liquid rush on the other side. Technically, it would have been possible to climb through the high window, but there was no way Elio had the strength. 

Oliver waited respectfully until he heard sobbing or more choking. Then, he eased the door open and discovered it to be frighteningly morbid laughter laced with pouring tears. 

“I’m worst than my fucking mom,” Elio wailed to the floor and shook with his hilarity.

When they were kids, he’d told Oliver about her habits, rarely going into detail. 

“I ever tell you the time I found her in a tub full of shit. Naked. Just laying there. That was my mother.”

“Maybe she was trying to get clean.”

Elio fell quiet. 

The next time Oliver called in sick, his manager told him not to bother coming back. He’d expected that message a few days earlier, so he hung up the phone without arguing. Instead, he sighed at the boy in the middle of his floor, sweating, moaning. 

Oliver knelt in front of him. “What’s going on?”

“Hurts.”

“What hurts?”

“Everything.” 

“Want a foot rub?”

“I want to die.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“Why?”

Oliver didn’t try to respond.

“Why do you fucking care?”

“I just do.”

Elio shook his head, shut his eyes, and curled up like a pill bug on his side. Sheets and blankets spent, Oliver covered him with a winter coat. 

Four hours later, after the longest bout of sleep he’d had in over a week, Elio sat up, cleared his throat, and asked for water. Oliver obliged and wiped his damp forehead. 

“How about a shower?”

Elio leaned his head on Oliver’s shoulder while the latter remained fully clothed under the spray. Curiosity and temptation to explore Elio's body was overridden by concern.  
Washing his back and arms, Oliver noted whereas Elio had been lean before, in that long, foodless week, he’d whittled down to bony. Oliver would strengthen him up again - once he could get his hands on some food. 

Wrapped in a towel, Elio waited on the closed toilet, while Oliver stripped and showered.

The can broth had developed a layer of mold that would have made a fifth-grade science class proud. It left Oliver and his house guest only condiments to eat. Oliver had $23.26 to his name, was unwilling to leave the apartment for food, had no one to ask. It also didn’t seem ideal to drag Elio, dressed in an oversized t-shirt, out into the late fall weather.

“Are you hungry?”

Elio shook his head weakly. Oliver’s stomach growled a different answer, but he busied himself urging a comb through Elio’s matted hair. He squeezed toothpaste onto Elio’s finger. That would have to do for the moment. 

“Tired.”

Oliver nodded, covered Elio with his winter coat, and snuggled in beside him. His back and legs remained uncovered but it was tropical warm in the apartment. Elio folded himself like an armadillo. Oliver wrapped around him, lips to his cool brow, and waited for him to fall asleep. 

“Remember when we were kids?”

Oliver chuckled. “Yup.”

“I thought I was going to be with you forever.”

Rather than reply, Oliver breathed in the false-fresh scent of the Dollar Store shampoo he’d used to cleanse Elio’s hair and skin. 

“I thought we would grow up and move out of Marcia’s and go to California and get a place on the beach and have like five dogs and nine kids.”

Oliver smiled at the ridiculous fantasy. “Dogs, yes. Kids, never.”

“You don’t want kids?” Elio shifted to look up at him.

“No.”

“Come on.”

“They’re helpless, useless, they just make a mess. No kids.”

“I want, like, at least five.”

Smiling, Oliver covered Elio’s face lightly with his palm. Then, he curled his hand around his ear and kissed his cheek. That hand snaked under the t-shirt and spread on Elio’s warm belly, the pinky tracing his bush as Oliver whispered into his still-damp hair. “Where the hell would we even get kids?”

“Off the street, man. They’ll be so fucking grateful not to have to sleep on a sewage grate, we won’t even hardly have to feed them.”

Better not to think about little Elio sleeping on a sewage grate. Did that ever happen? If Oliver asked, he’d have to know.

“They’ll call me Daddy and you Papa.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Why not?”

Elio rolled back onto his side and rubbed his face across Oliver’s thickly stubbled chin. Oliver met his lips, slid his fingers through Elio’s curls, and traced his thumb along the sharp line of his cheekbone.

“I used to think that, too,” He said, blowing the words onto Elio’s face. “That we would…”

For years, Oliver had uselessly fantasized that he’d killed Flip and run away with the kid. But what good would that have done? A fugitive 15-year-old and his 8-year-old companion? They would have been an even worse timeline.

In an unexpected burst of energy, Elio leaped onto Oliver’s chest and kissed him, sloppy and aggressive like a horny preteen. Laughing, Oliver effortlessly rolled them again, putting Elio on his back. The kid smirked up with flirtatious anticipation. Hands roaming up and down Oliver’s chest, he locked his legs around his waist, eyelids batting - evoking the sweet, pitiful waif he’d been a decade earlier. The orphan Oliver had let get fucked by an adult. 

Oliver flopped onto his back and covered his eyes with a forearm. 

“Oliver, god.” Elio sat up. “Okay. You know what. It’s not like that. I get it. I mean, I don’t get it. I thought… I just… Whatever, okay. We don’t have to…”

After a deep breath, Oliver gripped Elio’s arm and pulled him flat onto his back. Conscience be damned. 

As generously as Elio was endowed for his stature, Oliver’s massive hand sheathed him completely. Elio shut his eyes and arched into the touch. Electric urgency courses through Oliver as he retreated into the unbearable heat beneath the winter coat. He slid up the hem of his t-shirt, rubbing his face against the hollow of Elio’s empty belly. Sliding his cheek along his soft skin and coarse hair. Breathing in his scent. Running a palm along his lean thigh. He held Elio at the base, licked along his shaft, and finally took in the fantasy he’d harbored for years. 

*

Elio kneels in front of Oliver’s chair, hazel eyes dark in the half-light, upturned and laser-focused. 

“That’s good, Oliver. Nice and slow.”

He licks his lips like a starving man and covers Oliver’s hand with his own, guiding his motions. Warm breath falls on Oliver’s most sensitive skin, gooseflesh unfurling across his back and limbs. 

“Use your left hand now.”

Oliver nods. He wipes Elio’s hair back from his face, traces, and admires the angles of his jaw, the curve of his lips before resting his right hand on his thigh. Then, Oliver curls the fabric of his hospital pants in his fist and concentrates on raising the left hand. 

That's a heavier task. The muscles tense as if there’s iron in his veins. Groaning with effort, and with a bit of gentle help, he brings his left hand into position and lets Elio guide him in stroking himself. 

Within a moment, his hand cramps and Oliver releases his grip. 

“Come on, Ol. Don’t give up. Try with just your thumb and pinky. … Just take your time. Good.”

A thrill of heat shoots through Oliver’s system as he takes a breath and switches to using his thumb and ring finger. He works up to engaging his entire hand again. 

“Good job. Now the right again … Faster. Come on, Oliver. You can do this.”

Oliver's right hand manages a decent grip, but his arm won’t pick up speed. It’s a paltry impression of jerking off. On the other hand, he’s lucky to get hard at all. That’s enough. He’s done his homework. He’ll try again tomorrow. 

Then Elio opens his mouth, waiting. 

Oliver holds his breath, unable to stop or finish until Elio leans forward, kisses the tip, tongues the slit, and engulfs his lover whole. With a groaning shudder, Oliver releases between Elio's lips, panting as the boy sits back on his heels and smirks. 

“Better than medicine.”

*

“Why’d you do that?" Elio scolds. "I told you I was about to come, you idiot.”

Oliver had swallowed because he wanted to. He went down because he wanted to. He'd always wondered, but never met a guy he’d wanted to do that for. Perhaps because of Oliver's size or temperament, his flings were always eager to serve and never insisted.

Elio had laid there with his eyes squeezed shut, fists clenched at his sides, not indicating until the last moment whether he was enjoying Oliver’s ministrations or suffering through the worst head of his life. Despite an intimate understanding of the process, Oliver hadn’t expected the sensation of Elio shooting down his throat to be so abrupt. He also wasn't prepared for it to go down the wrong pipe. Oliver pulled off hacking. 

“You moron. I warned you.” Elio shook his head and rolled his eyes. “I guess you’ll never do that again.”

Face stinging, eyes watering, Oliver was too busy sputtering to argue or explain. 

“Hey, where’s my guitar?”

Even if Oliver could speak he didn’t have an answer. Elio sat up and frantically scanned the apartment.

“I need my fucking guitar.”

Oliver scratched his head. Not only did he have no idea where the instrument was if he let Elio search on his own it'd likely be the last he ever saw of the boy. Likewise, if Oliver went looking for it, he’d return to an empty apartment. 

“We have to go find it,” Elio said and began putting on his filthy clothes. 

Oliver convinced him to wear more of his clownishly oversized, but clean clothing for this expedition. A few moments after sunrise, Elio led the way back to the squatter’s camp. While Oliver paused at the border, Elio pranced through like the crown prince of the impoverished. 

He leaned over and spoke to one of the tents. The woman whose head emerged had attacked Elio with Oliver’s stereo the last time they passed this way - what felt like a century prior. She disappeared back into the tent and climbed out with Elio’s guitar in its soft case, never taking her eyes off Oliver. 

Elio smiled and waved him over. Holding his breath, Oliver carefully tread between the huddled masses. 

“See, Rhoda. Not the devil. Just Oliver,” Elio placed his hand on Oliver’s shoulder, creating a bridge between them. “Say hi.” 

“Ma’am.” Oliver nodded politely without looking directly at her dirty, skeptical face. 

She shook her head. “Mmm-mm. Look like the devil to me.”

“Well, maybe he does, but he’s not.”

Elio kissed her cheek and then strode away. “Let’s go eat. I could go for some Italian right now.”

“Yeah, I was thinking we should go grab some groceries,” Oliver suggested without adding that he was down to his last twenty-odd dollars. 

There would be another partial paycheck coming in from each of his jobs, but not enough to cover the rent, and utilities, and food. A time of tough choices was coming. But that wasn’t anything Elio had to know about. 

“You want to cook for me?”

“Sure.” Oliver managed a smile by sheer virtue of the adorable tilt of Elio's head. 

“How can I say no to that?”

While Oliver filled the cart with cans, Elio dropped in a huge bag of mini chocolate bars left over from the Halloween season.

“We’re not getting that.”

Elio laughed, flounced away, and returned with a box of Cap’n Crunch.

“Elio. No.” 

As if looks could convince, Elio smirked. He stood toe to toe with Oliver and gazed up, chewing his lower lip. “Are you telling me no?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

Oliver couldn’t beat back his smile. He also couldn’t resist curling an arm around Elio’s waist, lifting him slightly and planting a kiss on that sassy mouth. An elderly lady rounded the corner to their aisle, saw them, and quickly looked away. Elio glanced over his shoulder in the direction of Oliver’s gaze. With a mischievous chuckle, he pressed his hips to Oliver’s thigh. 

“Quit,” Oliver whispered, still grinning. 

The next time the lady peeked, it was with her own secret smile. 

Elio picked up one of Oliver’s choices and made a face. “Dude, I don’t eat beans.”

“Well, you’re going to learn to love them.”

“I'm not eating beans, Oliver.”

At checkout, Elio paid for everything with a fifty-dollar bill. When they reached the apartment, he began spreading ingredients for Italian food on the table. While Elio busied himself with cooking, Oliver surreptitiously dug into the pocket of his guitar case, peeking up every few seconds to be sure he wasn’t caught. 

The worst-case scenario would be another stash of drugs. Ideally, there'd be a wad of cash. 

Oliver had seen countless evictions in his life and had miraculously avoided being the victim of one. Besides the humiliation and the ever-colder weather, if Oliver didn’t have a place, he had nothing to offer Elio. No reason for him to stay. 

What Oliver found instead was a small handgun. He hadn't held a firearm since his grandfather was alive. His heart slammed against his chest. He could confront Elio and ask why he needed the weapon, but that was evident, considering his lifestyle. Elio wasn’t exactly an intimidating guy.   
Oliver put the gun back where he'd found it although Elio wouldn't need it anymore. If anyone came near him, Oliver would rip them to pieces with his teeth. 

Quietly, he zipped the guitar case shut and wandered over, leaning on the wall to watch slim hips sway as Elio hummed to himself, dancing while he cooked. The sizzle of butter, the aroma of roasting garlic, the allure of a gorgeous young chef = culinary magic. 

He wrapped himself around Elio like a blanket and the boy froze solid. 

It was a mistake. too abrupt. Oliver's spatial boundaries were usually far wider than this. He couldn't remember the last person he'd hugged. He could respect if Elio didn’t want that entrapped feeling when someone gets too close. 

“You okay?”

Elio nodded. “Me okay.”

Oliver sighed and kissed his neck. He’d been waiting his entire life for anything to be this good.


	21. Chapter 21

“So, what are we doing here?” Natia asks cracking her knuckles like she’s gearing up for battle. “Meds are a valid choice, Mr. Gelding. Rehab ain’t for the faint-hearted.”

“No. He loves me.” Elio stands behind Oliver’s chair with an arm around his neck, planting kisses on his head.

His meddlesome fingers wipe Oliver's hair back from his forehead. Oliver grits his teeth until he can’t stop himself from swatting. He explains away the motion with the single word: “Fly.”

“That was some impressive arm control. You’ve been doing your homework.”

Oliver neither confirms nor denies the accusation. Natia holds his wrists and guides his arms in wide, painful circles. Rather than complain, Oliver grunts beneath his breath and says, “I want to be able to wipe my ass.”

She nods, placing his hands in his lap. “And how about getting to the can on your own?”

“Yeah. That, too.”

“You will have to work.”

Oliver sniffs and nods, clutching both fists. If pain means progress, he's ready to suffer. While Natia is looking at her calendar, Liv enters the room with a hard leather guitar case. “Ash hardly ever plays anymore.”

“What is that?” Oliver asks although he already knows.

“You asked for it.”

“I did not.”

“Dad, you expressly asked…”

As they argue, Elio wanders over to the case, kneels, and opens the case like a pirate rediscovering a treasure. 

“Playing an instrument is another great way to practice fine motor skills,” Natia says. “If you want a break from the other methods.”

“If you don’t want it—“ Liv bends.

“No, leave it,” Oliver says, diverting his eyes from the eerie image of Liv standing in the center of Elio's back. “Please.”

* 

Oliver awoke to Elio naked, crosslegged on the bed beside him. A cigarette hung from his lips as he hummed the same soft melody as he played on the guitar. Notes fell around them gentle and bright as autumn leaves. Nevermind the ashes about to fall onto his lap.

Oliver swiped the cigarette and helped himself to a drag, immediately recalling why he deplored the habit. Elio chuckled at Oliver’s throat clearing and reclaimed his smoke.

Flat on his back, arms folded beneath his head, Oliver watched the muscles in Elio’s lean arm move beneath the tapestried skin. Not for the first time, Oliver ran a palm over the tentacle tattoo with the raised suction cups. He'd seen a documentary about cultures that use scarring to mark their people. Plenty of Westerners engaged in the same practices. And nothing was past Elio.

“These must have hurt.”

“Do you ever mind your own business?” Elio replied without stopping or slowing the song. 

Oliver climbed onto his knees behind him. A hand on his clammy forehead and one on his chin, he drew Elio's head back and planted a kiss on his nose. Undeterred, Elio’s fingers continued playing. Even when Oliver licked the seam of his lips, the music never stopped. 

Finally, Oliver kneeled in front of him and pried the instrument from his hands. With a sigh, Elio dropped his legs and let Oliver kneel between his knees. "What do you want?"

Oliver replied by engulfing Elio’s cock, gagging himself bitterly. 

“What is the fucking rush?" Elio pulled out and smacked his cheek with it. "Slow down. Just stroke it.”

Oliver wiped his eyes with the back of his arm and complied. Better not to imagine where and when Elio became an expert. 

“That’s good, Oliver. Now, kiss it.”

Elio stood and glided his tip back and forth across Oliver’s lips. He drew away slightly, remaining connected by a thin thread of precome. 

“You want it?”

Entranced, Oliver swallowed and nodded, thickly. 

“Say it.”

“Want it.” His voice faint beneath the pounding in his chest.

“Say it like you fucking mean it, Oliver.” Elio gripped Oliver’s hair and drove into his mouth with the tenderness of an underage tyrant. “You want it now?”

Holding Oliver's skull with both hands, he pulled almost completely out and slammed home again, with a savage grunt. 

Oliver squeezed his streaming eyes shut, and subdued the temptation to shove away or tackle the boy. He groaned through the deep ache in his throat and the airless burn in his lungs, conceding to suffer in worship. Elio exalted - not despite his flaws, but because of them. 

Oliver’s attachment to this boy had always cost him. A decent home. His freedom for a time. His jobs. His increasingly tenuous sanity. All he’d have to do is extricate himself and be free. Instead, Oliver accepted the torture, jerking himself furiously, only releasing when Elio pulled out and burst his seed over his upturned face.

For a few shuddering moments, his sweat-coated stomach heaved with labored breath. Elio leaned forward, to gift a kiss and whisper, “Thank you.”

* 

A hard-fought half-year passes before Natia finally stands in front of Oliver’s parked wheelchair. Liv’s boyfriend, Ash, is positioned under one arm. Anne’s husband, Tom Chambers, tucks himself beneath the other. Natia directs them to support, but not hoist Oliver.

As if he’s never faced anything so difficult in his life as standing, Oliver’s face drips with sweat. His legs wobble. Jaw and fists clenched, he tenses and grunts, engaging every muscle group. Natia has taught him anatomy, physiology, and visualization. His six-month progress is remarkable, but no one teaches a child the mechanics behind standing. Those lessons are learned through repeated falls.

Oliver is an adult. Overthinking gravity and balance. Overcompensating for uncertainty with resistance. When this ends badly, he'll be sprawled on the floor with the others standing over him laughing. 

With a deep breath, he shatters the mental snapshot of getting jumped in juvi. They'd shown the super-sized white boy his place: constantly scrapping. They only felled him once, by ambush and with brutal numbers. His ability to fight had earned a lasting respect he was happy to forget. Chances are most of those hoodlums are dead or still in prison. Oliver is a multi-millionaire. Fuck you, memory.

Still, before Oliver - the millionaire can banish the bathroom nurse, he needs to be able to stand.

The only big problem with this moment is the goddamn audience. Ashraf sturdy as a pillar. Chambers gazing at the ground. Elio in the corner cooing, “You got this.”

Anne and Liv, arm in arm as if watching an Olympic dismount. The little boy on the sofa. 

Oliver lets the men help him halfway to his feet. He hovers in a low squat. 

Ashraf on his right. Oliver has always bowed out of dinners and formal introductions with the young man - out of sheer humiliation about their first encounter. That mortifying moment when Oliver hurled himself out of the bed trying to attack the guy. Did it make him look racist? Or does the young man assume Oliver is the average, run of the mill lunatic?

“Hello, sir.”

“He’s pretty cute, Ol,” Elio says. “Your girl’s got taste.”

Oliver growls and glares at Chambers. That punk stole his wife and his kid. No wonder he never meets Oliver's eyes. 

Back then, when he first learned of their affair, Oliver had considered putting his Ripken-signed aluminum baseball bat to skull-bashing use and had wisely decided it wasn't worth it. He'd never wanted a wife or kid anyway. 

Still, it's the goddamn principle of the thing. Oliver gut checks him and Chambers doubles over. Ash can't hold Oliver up alone and he flops like six and a half feet of deadweight back into his chair. 

Elio howls. Liv scowls. Oliver chuckles. Natia covers her grin as Chambers leaves the room. 

Worth it. 

* 

Whenever Elio slipped to his knees, Oliver stayed his hands and stepped away. When Elio suggested they go out dancing; Oliver feigned a headache. Elio whined about a need for Thai food, and Oliver made him canned stir-fry. 

Without touching his steaming plate, Elio sat back in the steel folding chair and placed both hands on Oliver’s second-hand card table. “Look, money is easy. You know that, right?”

In Anger Management, they teach a process for breathing slowly through the nostrils. It works on disappointment and self-hatred, as well. Elio crossed his legs and lit a cigarette. “I could make two hundred, three hundred bucks tonight.”

“No. I’ll get a job.”

“You ever make 300 dollars in a day at Home Depot?”

“No, Elio." Oliver let the chills wash over him and stated firmly. “I don’t want you to do that.”

Elio rolled his eyes, and replied, “Fine. You do it.”

“What?”

“I know this guy, Gideon. He’s a finder. He could get you a gig."

"I don't--"

“You do it or I do it.”

Another method of anger management is to keep still. When you want to break something or someone and there's no opportunity to walk away, stay inhumanly still. Oliver suspended his motion while Elio dialed. 

No way on earth he was going to turn tricks. No way in Hell he was going to let Elio do that again. The only reason he hadn’t already applied for a new job was that Elio would leave. 

Better to box his books and move into a shelter than go along with this brainless plan. Yet, for lack of a better idea and out of morbid curiosity, Oliver stayed glued to his chair, listening in on half of the most bizarre conversation he'd heard.

“Hey, it’s me … I been around… Needed a break is all … Maybe. We’ll see … Listen, I got something for you. A top … No shit. Full on, fucking gorgeous, masculine he-man.”

Oliver's ears warmed at the description.

“Like 6 and a half feet.” Elio covered the receiver with his hand and asked, “How tall are you?”

Oliver nodded. The prison doctor had confirmed his height during processing. He hadn't been to a medical professional since.

“Golden hair, sea-blue eyes … No shit, Gideon. He’s fucking … I’m telling you, you got to see him.” 

Oliver’s heart pounded and he looked away, pretending to be occupied with studying the fraying wallpaper.

"He’s 22,” Elio lied and held a finger to his lips. His eyes lowered to Oliver’s crotch. “You think I would call you if he wasn’t hung?”

Oliver answered the question in Elio’s eyes with a shrug. He’d always found himself adequate and had only received favorable feedback. There was no way he was going through with this, therefore the size of his penis didn't matter.

Elio ended the call and gave a thumbs up. “Don’t worry, man. It’s a cakewalk.”

*

On the next attempt, Natia brings two orderlies: strapping men in pastel scrubs. While they position themselves to help Oliver stand, Elio wraps his paw around one of their biceps.

“Are you seeing this?”

“Would you fucking quit?” Oliver says, shattering his best effort to keep cool. 

Natia and her assistants exchange a questioning glance.

Winded and sweaty, Oliver shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I’m okay.”

His legs shake. His stomach quivers. The young men take Natia's instructions seriously and leave most of the effort to Oliver. They are there to catch, not carry him. 

“Breathe,” Natia shouts. 

Oliver lets in a lungful of air and firmly grips the arms of his walker. The orderlies release him and for three glorious seconds, he holds himself upright.

Natia laughs and claps. “You’re a tall fucker, aren’t you?"

Oliver huffs a fatigued laugh.

“Feels good looking down on everybody again, doesn't it?”

After nearly a year in bed and in that chair, Oliver had forgotten what it was like to stand, to be a man, with his spine straight and his feet grounded. Elio rewards Oliver's achievement with a roguish half-smile and says, "Nice."

Then, the orderlies help down. 

*

It took three days of convincing - and hunger - before Oliver agreed to meet Gideon. To humor Elio. To shut him up. Because the rent was due in a week and Oliver had no better ideas. He'd suggested that Elio busk, to the point-blank reply that he'd rather sell his body than his music.

There they stood in the shadow of a home that might have passed for a library. A white brick-front castle, larger than any residence Oliver had entered. 

At the wrought-iron gate, Elio responded to the intercom, “It’s me, Clark, you fuck. Let me in.”

He strolled to the door with his usual wide-legged gait, exuding a confidence Oliver didn’t feel. Oliver scanned left and right as they rounded the circular driveway, studied the trees, memorized his escape route.

“Look,” Elio said without facing him. “When we go in there, you call me by your name."

"What?"

"Made me feel braver, okay?”

The door opened to reveal a man twice Oliver's girth, half a foot taller with nearly plum-black skin. 

“Sup, Clark?”

“Suck it, kid.”

“Fuck you,” Elio said.

Oliver braced. Then Clark smiled and the two exchanged a solid fistbump. They entered the house behind him, squeaky sneaker footsteps echoing in the marble foyer that led into a vast, immaculate parlor. Oliver folded his hands in front lest he touch something more valuable than his organs. 

In the center of a sofa fit for Queen Elizabeth, a 50-something Asian man glanced over his reading glasses and smiled. 

“Hello, boys.” 

No introduction was required. Oliver had been described and forewarned that Gideon was a snake. From his perch, the man eyed Oliver from head to sole, nodding in quiet approval. Elio scampered to the ivory-white grand piano in the corner and began to play.

“16th birthday present, “Gideon said with a proud smile. Still appraising Oliver, he stood and approached. “ Well, he certainly didn’t exaggerate, did he? You are … rather remarkable.”

Oliver swallowed the compliment and tapped his toes in his shoes as the man circled him, gently squeezing his arm and pressing curious fingertips to Oliver’s midsection.

“Lovely,” Gideon said and made a vague gesture.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“He wants you to drop trou,” Elio called across the room without missing a note.

“Yeah, I’m not…”

“If you want to work, I’ll need to know more about your tools.” Gideon smiled at his joke and waited.

Oliver scratched his scalp and searched for the nearest exit. “I don’t really —“

“I've had a prospect offer $10,000 for 5 hours with you.”

“What?”

“A gentleman is waiting for his Aryan prince.”

“I’m not… I’m not that.”

“Well, you fit the bill, you land the role.”

"I'm not---" While his feet and hard-pounding heart urged him to flee, Oliver’s mouth asked, “How much?”

Gideon laughed, resumed his seat, and casually crossed his legs. 

“You know what? It doesn’t matter.” Oliver swiftly crossed the room and grabbed the back of Elio’s collar. “This is crazy. Let’s go.”

“Would you like to know how much that one brings in?”

No. Oliver did not want to know. He wanted to leave and forget he’d ever engaged in the conversation. The house was huge and ornately decorated, but there was a pervasive cold seeping out of every clinical-white surface.

“Under the right circumstances and with the right buyers, twice that.”

The music stopped at the same time as Oliver’s feet. 

“Just 14 years old when he tried to steal Clark’s wallet at a gas station. Do you remember that, Ollie?” 

Elio gave him the finger and stood beside Oliver with a similar stunned expression. 

“He had about as much meat on his bones as now,” Gideon continued.  
“Some clients love that half-starved urchin look. I prefer a healthy, well-groomed appearance. All a matter of taste, of course."

Oliver's pulse was beating in his gritted teeth. The sound of Gideon's voice was like nails on slate.

"We learned very quickly that with the right motivation, and if you let him call you Daddy, this little boy will ride a cock like a cowgirl.”

“You know what, fuck you, Gideon.” Elio turned to the door. 

“What do you earn on your own, Oliver? Twenty bucks for head? Something like that?”

Oliver shook off the misdirection of his name as Elio spun on his heels and pointed a rigid finger. “You cheated me.”

“You were a child. What would you have done with that kind of money? Bought new sneakers every week.”

“You sold me for parts, you bastard.”

“I took care of you,” Gideon replied without raising his voice. “Because I wanted to. And you have proven yourself by bringing me this... I’m prepared to negotiate when you quit with this tantrum and come back to work.”

Elio's nostrils flared as he folded his arms like a stubborn teenager, but didn’t storm away like Oliver was prepared to do. 

“Christopher was sorely disappointed that you missed his birthday," Gideon said. "But he is planning on a New Year’s celebration.”

“Fuck Christopher. I’m not doing that again.”

“We’ll see. You’ve certainly made the point that your service is valuable. He’s willing to pay whatever we ask.”

Elio shook his head and looked away, allowing Gideon to approach and address Oliver directly. His cologne smooth and wintry like his presence.

“Do you know why I’m able to command the premiums I do?"

Oliver didn't know why they were still standing in that place. No amount of money was worth selling yourself. Prostitution is wrong and illegal and if he was certain that Elio would follow him, he'd blaze a path through the door.

"Discretion, exclusivity, and the finest offerings," Gideon answered his own question. "An uncommon beauty. This child walks into a room and conversations halt."

Oliver had witnessed that himself when they were kids: adults cooing and fawning over the little raven-haired angel (until they learned about his spitting habit or the way he used to touch himself in public). Elio had always been a blend of a comet and a train wreck: an undeniable, horrifying brightness.

"Eager to please. With creamy, unblemished skin, hazel eyes, and all of Oliver's complex issues," Gideon said. "Who wouldn’t pay top price for that? Always freshly tested. Always clean. 

Even when he started with the tattoo and piercing nonsense, he'll still be marketable for another ten years. And eventually, pretty boys grow and wither. God only made a handful of beasts like you. Every third man who calls is looking for an All-American steed.”

When Gideon tried to grab his crotch, Oliver caught the hand and contemplated breaking the man's wrist. Elio nudged him and he released it, uncrushed. 

“It’s not a big deal, man. Just show him.”

Oliver's jaw nearly slipped from the hinge. This whole fiasco was Elio’s doing. If he could tear himself away from Elio, the madness would end. 

“Do you want me to do it?”

Stunned by his own stupidity, Oliver blinked and watched Elio kneel in front of him. For the first time, he didn't brush away the small, pale hands loosening his belt. He remained paralyzed while Elio opened his zipper and presented his prick like an hors d'oeuvre. 

Gideon gave a tight, satisfied nod. “And erect?”

The flare that shot through Oliver’s system as Elio began to stroke was not purely arousal. It was the fucking flame of Hell. He pushed Elio aside and jerked himself, harsh and rapid, as if flaying himself. He’d made his bed with Elio in it. This shit was happening. He was beating off for a stranger. Planning to sell himself. For Elio. Probation be damned. Fucking pride be damned. 

“Excellent. I’ll call with an appointment.” Gideon smiled calmly with a wink for Elio. “And I’ll tell Christopher you’re deliberating.”

*

Little Connor does not get the memo that children are not welcome in Oliver's room. Liv doesn’t want it locked in case someone needs to get to his aid in a rush. So, the boy enters at will. 

On this occasion, he comes in while Oliver is at his desk, writing almost straight lines. Every time, he returns to the left of the page, his crooked claw smudges the charcoal of his previous work. It’s beyond frustrating, but it’s better than a week ago when the lines looked like EEG waves. 

Elio is softly humming and playing the guitar for the bare trees on the other side of the window. 

Connor rises on his tiptoes to peer over Oliver’s arm. “I can write an O.”

“Good for you,” Oliver mumbles. “Go find your mother.”

“Want me to show you?”

Despite the very clear, "No," Connor places his hand over Oliver’s and guides him in writing a squiggly circle.

The child frowns. “That’s not very good.” 

He easily strips away the pencil, despite Oliver’s attempt to grip it tight. The kid writes a slightly better O on his own and smiles. 

“What’s the rest?”

Oliver glares. The music stops. Elio is watching now. Elio can go to Hell and take this kid along with him.

“O.” Connor says and points to the paper.

Elio says, “Sound it out, kid.” 

“Ooooolll. L? I think L.” Connor writes a capital L next to his O. “Olllllaahhh… Olllllaver?”

“It’s an I,” Elio crosses the room and kneels at the boy's other side. 

A pair of hazel eyes bat up expectantly. Huge brown eyes wait for guidance. Oliver holds his curmudgeonly tongue for a full minute before he repeats Elio's instruction. 

“I?” Connor writes I.

“V-E-R.”

Connor writes V E B and smiles at his handiwork. 

Oliver nods. “Now, go find your mother.”

Elio picks up the paper and grins. With a hand on Oliver’s shoulder, he says, “You did good.”

*

“You look good.” Elio fixed the collar of Oliver’s decent shirt and nipped his chin. “Just do whatever he wants. And then it’s over.”

Oliver nodded. Gideon had supplied him with a bottle of blue pills and explained that this client had not requested testing. Therefore, it was advisable to bring his own protection. Oliver would report to Gideon’s following the appointment and collect his cash. Simple. 

Yet, as Oliver prepared to leave the apartment, one question remained unanswered:

“Will you still be here?”

Elio shrugged. “I think so.”

That would have to do.

Even with his good Army/Navy winter coat, the air was bone-chilling with the promise of the season’s first snow in the forecast.

A black town car picked Oliver up at the corner and delivered him, to the sound of classical music at a secluded country house. He was guided by a silent butler to an anteroom. Beyond the French doors there was another chamber with a fireplace and a black-draped canopy bed. The room was dim and sultry with the flicker of smoldering embers.

The decor was sleek and elegant in a way that made Oliver rethink his worldview. For the first time, he considered that it was better to be rich than poor. Until that moment, he’d always harbored a feeling that the rich are evil, conniving, selfish and it’s better to have nothing to be one of those weasels. Stepping into that bedroom, Oliver received the epiphany that weasel or not, this man could afford to purchase another man - and Oliver was on the wrong side of that equation. 

At first, he was so taken by the opulence that he didn’t see the elder gentleman tucked neatly into the center of the bed. Like a small child in lovely blue silk pajamas, he sat up and gawked as if Oliver was St. Nicholaus bringing his most-desired toy. 

“Oh my.”

Oliver stood still and let the man admire his physique by the flamelight. His height alone intimidated a lot of people. Many have not learned that it's impolite to stare. Others don't care.

“You are … excellent.”

An attempted smile fell flat. Oliver's hands curled into fists until he exhaled through his nostrils and willed himself to relax. Elio had suggested alcohol. Oliver had chosen to power through this madhouse with full control over his faculties. 

Any concern that he’d be overpowered by his client were unfounded. The man might have been 80 years old and feeble. Returning the gaze, Oliver promised himself to become rich, but never old. 

“What’s your name?”

“Um… Elio, sir,” Oliver answered as if assuming that name could dissolve his inhibition.

The old man frowned. “That doesn’t suit you at all. I’ll call you Erich. And you may address me as Adam.”

Oliver nodded. Even at Home Depot, the customer is never wrong. “Can I … do something for you, Adam?”

“Undress.”

Oliver drew a deep breath and obeyed. Mercifully, the old man allowed him to stop at the black silk Calvin Klein jersey boxers Elio had insisted on purchasing with money he'd been hiding. 

“Spin," Adam commanded. "Slowly.”

Oliver complied. 

“Flex. Show off your body.”

Oliver closed his eyes and conjured images of Arnold Schwarzenegger as Mr. Universe. Saturday Night Live’s Hans and Frans inspired a smile to accompany his inflated performance. 

“Beautiful, Erich. Now, I need you to help me out of bed.”

At that proximity, the smoky scent took on a urine-tinged overtone. Oliver took the man’s hand, a strangely soft and bony claw covered in mottled dry skin. Adam was a slight, short man even without the crooked spine. 

“Lay me on the floor. “

“I’m sorry?”

“On my back, on this rug.”

Oliver followed the instruction, carefully lifting the elder from his feet and placing him on his back on the polar bear rug. Oliver took a moment to revel in standing barefoot on the fur of an endangered animal. The indignant disgust he should feel was replaced by an admiration for the thick, softness and the curiosity for what that sort of thing must cost. 

“Now, stand on my chest, Erich.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Place your foot on the center of my chest.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Now.”

Oliver cleared his throat and looked around the room. No audience of his peers was there to judge his reaction to Adam's command. 

A command is one thing. Could this be seen as a request from what could be a dying man who wanted to get off maybe one last time? Seen that way, Oliver was providing a service. Who was he to judge the man's preferences? If a man wants to lay on his back with a giant’s foot in the center of his chest, Oliver could help and be paid well to do so. 

Once he paid the rent, he’d open a bank account with the balance. He'd put aside ten percent. Maybe even twenty. Do a few more of these “gigs,” as Elio called them. Then, they’d be set. Oliver would learn to invest his money. He’d go to school full-time, get his degree. This was a good thing.

All he had to do was stand - lightly - on this old guy’s chest. 

And let Adam suck his big toe. 

Okay.

Pissing on the man’s face was more difficult. In part in principle. But also, Oliver had emptied his bladder before climbing into the car. In anxious anticipation, he hadn’t eaten or drunk much all day. Eventually, though, he managed to squeeze out a trickle while miraculously keeping the disgust off his face at Adam twisting and turning to lap up every drop.

The old man closed his eyes and shuddered with his excitement, never touching his shriveled erection. 

“Wonderful. So wonderful." He took a moment to compose himself. "You see the chair beside my bed. Open the box and handle its contents with the utmost care.”

Oliver passed around the bed and eyed the white box. If there was a head inside, he would leave. 

When he opened the box, the reflex of relief at finding only a hat was quickly replaced by nausea at the swastika on its band.

“Put it on,” Adam demanded from the floor. “Call me a dirty kike.”

Oliver dropped the hat. 

Swiftly, he lifted the old man back into his bed. Despite the weak struggles and yells for him to stop, Oliver helped Adam out of the piss drenched pajama shirt and pulled the covers over his spindly legs.

Never once had he stepped foot inside a synagogue, but he’d seen the faded blue numbers on Joe’s forearm. That wasn’t enough to form an identity, but it was enough to inspire Oliver to toss the hat into the fireplace on his way out of the room and leave the old man screeching hollow threats at his back.


	22. Chapter 22

To hear it told, muscle death is excruciating.  
According to Natia, this stabbing, throbbing pain in Oliver's legs is caused by growth. 

The reason doesn't matter. Oliver lays on his back, moaning, gripping through the sheets he's already sweated through while Elio massages his left calf and hums a melody from when they were kids.

Olivia massages, as well, reciting a poem while anguished tears slip through the seams of Oliver’s eyelids.

*

Oliver entered his dark apartment holding his breath. 

Elio's form was in bed, but so unearthly still that Oliver delayed his approach for fear of what he'd discover. Why would he hurt himself when things are starting to go right?  
Actually, everything was shit and why does Elio ever anything?

Before Oliver could get close enough to check his pulse, the sharp stink of liquor slapped him. He tripped over the bottles, causing them to clink against each other. Was this a best-case scenario?

Elio stirred and murmured, “How was it?”

"Not great.”

Oliver undressed without turning on the light. If possible, he’d sleep off this night and pretend it from existence. 

“You want to know the weirdest thing ever happened to me on a job?” 

“No.”

Oliver would have also rather not have noticed the slur in Elio’s speech. Too exhausted to question or deal with answers, he crawled under the covers. He could revert to savior mode tomorrow.

“This guy, Christopher, hired me for his birthday party. I thought I was just going to dance and strip and whatnot, but turns out, he wanted me blindfolded and chained to a bed, flat on my stomach, the whole time.”

“I said I don’t want to hear it, Elio.”

“Him and his friends, they just fucked me for hours. I think I passed out a few times.” Elio ran a hand down his arm with the tentacles. “The other thing I remember about that night, they were all smoking cigars. There was, like, this fog hanging over the bed.”

Since he couldn’t stop Elio from talking, Oliver focused on breathing and let himself slip into an elaborate fantasy of hunting down and murdering anyone who'd ever hurt Elio by making them swallow a lit cigar.

“I told them to put the cigars out on me.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, man. I was on Mars." Elio shrugged it off like he was talking about the weather. " I guess I thought it would be funny or something. It wasn’t fucking funny. And the next year, Christopher and his buddies came up with their own sick shit they wanted to do to me. … One time-“

“No.”

Oliver’s head was pounding. He was shivering. If he let Elio keep talking, he'd lose it.

Elio sniffed and ended with, “Let's just say the cleaning lady found me.”

With a desiccated lump lodged in his throat, Oliver tried to wrap himself around the boy only to be shoved away. Elio climbed out of bed, the bud of his cigarette lighting up the darkness with a floating orange glow. 

He wandered to the window and pulled back the curtain. The promised snow had begun. For a few hours, even this filthy part of the city would look clean and fresh. 

The street lamp shone through the window, casting faint light on Elio's nude silhouette. “I know you think you’re better than me, but you’re not now.”

“Is that why you took me to Gideon?”

“Don’t be stupid. How much did you make?”

Oliver sat up on the edge of the bed, “I never thought I was better—“

“How much?”

“I didn’t… I came straight back here.”

“He didn’t pay you? That fuck.”

“Elio. Let's just --”

“No, that is not cool. Especially not with what he owes me.” He paced the room for a moment and then, began to dress. 

*

Oliver doesn’t reply to the knock at the door. Nor does he look when it opens and the newly familiar voice says, “Mr. Gelding. Sir?”

Guitar notes fill the room but nothing like Elio’s finesse. It's a bit of folky plunking and then the music stops. The guest settles on the sofa across from Oliver’s desk where he’s been quietly writing. 

It would be easiest to keep his back turned, but Oliver turns around and glares at Olivia’s boyfriend: Ashraf, the desert-boy. 

That’s not PC, and Oliver doesn’t say it out loud. He stares. 

Curly black hair. Eyes like obsidian. Coconut-colored skin. A patient smile as he allows himself to be studied. 

Child soldier. Artist. The boyfriend. How are fathers supposed to feel about the guy who’s sleeping with their daughter? Tension, hostility, and mistrust seem appropriate, but Oliver is a flatline. No sentiment at all.  
Elio sits beside the young man and slings an arm around his shoulder. 

“Mr. Gelding. Sir. I’d like to marry your daughter.”

The young man's accent is relatively faint. He's clearly been in the US a while, or studied diligently, or has a talent for languages. Olivia has given glimpses of his life story, but not the entire book.

Oliver scoffs. “She wouldn’t appreciate you asking my permission.”

Ashraf's whole body shakes when he laughs.

Elio says, “Ask him what it’s like to kill someone.”

Ignoring him has become a way of life. 

“When I was your age,” Oliver says. “A little younger, actually… I used to get my kicks from bashing heads. Do you know what that means?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I got into fights. I picked fights. I hurt people. On purpose.”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

“Right up until I bashed one head too many, you see? Some idiot called me Gargamel in a parking lot. Do you know who Gargamel is?”

“No, sir.” Ashraf's hands are folded neatly in his lap.

“Doesn’t matter. I wanted to skin him for it. The only reason I’m sitting here and not in Chesapeake Detention Center is that the stubborn bastard didn’t die.”

“I understand,” Ash says.

Elio frowns. “You never told me this.”

Oliver hadn’t told anyone. Anne didn’t know that part of his life. She didn't know about Elio. She'd only ever heard Joe's name in passing. Whenever possible, Oliver had kept life before his 27th year entirely dark. He'd redefined himself and never looked back.

For some, inexplicable reason, sharing this story now doesn't feel like dredging up the past. It's more like knocking down a decades-old steel and concrete wall.

Why with this stranger? Why now? Perhaps because Ashraf is a stranger and his opinion doesn't matter. Or because he inspired Oliver’s daughter to forgive him before he’d earned it. Maybe it's because he knows what it's like to lose people. To hurt people. 

Most likely, Oliver is quieted by Ashraf's manner. Whatever the reason, he speaks:

“I should have been boxing or playing football or something, but that wasn’t available at the time. Eventually, I got my act together. Made my fortune, as you know.” 

Oliver drops that last comment casually, but the fact is that Ashraf has plenty to gain by marrying this rich, American girl. He ignores the topic.

“Still, you carry a heavy burden. I feel that, sir.”

“Mm. There's time for a lot of mistakes in a lifetime.”

“Time, also, for forgiveness.”

“Liv said you were… Buddhist or whatever.”

Ash smiles. “Muslim.”

“You’re Muslim?”

“My parents were. I pray to Allah. Religion does not matter. Letting go of guilt and unworthiness so we can love ourselves and love others more fully. That's what matters. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Islam is my path, and that Love is my religion.”

“Is this guy for real?” Elio rolls his eyes and folds his arms. “Is this some kind of schtick to sell his paintings?”

“Shut up,” Oliver mumbles under his breath.

Ash smiles and nods. “Olivia told me that you see spirits. Talking to the ancestors is very common where I come from.”

“Most people would call that crazy.”

"Well, to be honest, most Americans seem crazy to me.”

The rumble starts as a quiet and low chuckle and grows into full-on, wide-mouthed laughter, for the first time in as long as he can remember. The young man watches wide-eyed and with a gratified smile. 

“Ashraf. I’ll tell you what," Oliver says. "You can marry my daughter if you’ll give me 6 months so I can walk her down the aisle.”

*

For the second time, Oliver followed Elio into Gideon’s mansion. This time in the middle of the night, during an intensifying snowstorm. He stood in the beautiful, warm library a few feet behind Elio, who’d marched into the place without sharing a breath of his big idea. Oliver glanced at the door every few seconds. It would be so easy to wrap an arm around Elio's waist and schlep him out of there.

Gideon sat behind his desk and waited for Elio to speak. 

“I’m ready to work.”

“You came here in that mess to tell me that?”

“You wish, you piece of shit.” Elio’s locked his elbows, still his arms shook as he held the small handgun between both hands. 

It’d been over a decade since Oliver fired a gun, but Elio’s posture was far from ideal. If that little pistol had any kick, it'd break his wrist. Chances were he'd miss completely and blow a cute hole in the wall. 

“Give me a hundred grand," Elio said. "And we’ll call it even.”

“For what, Oliver? So you can shoot it up your veins?”

Oliver stood in paralyzed silence, stunned by the misuse of his name and Elio’s poorly-planned gambit. Was he still drunk? Was Oliver so witless that he'd followed a blind man into battle?

“It’s not your business what I do with it, Gideon. You owe me at least that much.”

“You want to talk about debt? This one…” Gideon pointed to Oliver. “He owes me sixty-thousand dollars for some priceless relic. What did you do, break a lamp, Godzilla? Do either of you have that kind of money? I tell you what, it’s coming out of your pants.”

“He’s not working for you anymore. This shit is over." Elio waved the gun at a landscape painting on the wall. "You are going to open that safe and give me a hundred thousand dollars in small bills. Then, we’re going to leave. That's it.”

Gideon sucked his tongue, visibly rolling options around his mouth before he strolled to the painting. The frame slid aside to reveal a safe. With his back is turned, he said, “A child makes a fine pet until he learns to bite.” 

Adrenaline blasting through his system, Oliver watched the door, braced in case Gideon signaled for Clark. Not because Elio's was a good idea. It was a very stupid idea. Elio deserved to be shaken like a ragdoll. If Oliver wasn’t fully focused on keeping trouble out of the door, he'd have been strangling Elio himself.

The sharp and swift sound that split the air was akin to the woosh of an arrow. Before Oliver made sense of it, Elio dropped his gun and crumpled to the floor. Gideon’s elegant, silenced weaponed was trained dead center of Oliver’s confused face. 

Elio lay still, limbs twisted - a mangled swastika. Gideon’s firing stance looked much more practiced and convincing than Elio's had been. Oliver's pulse pounded in his ears but not so loud he couldn’t hear the warning:

“Get out. You breathe a word of this, you join him.”


	23. Chapter 23

Elio adjusts Oliver’s bowtie, then stands on his tiptoes to nip his chin. “You look so hot.”

In her bridal regalia, Olivia steps through Elio's body, fixes the tie, and says, “You look great, Dad.”

Oliver smiles at them both. “You look very lovely.”

It's too much makeup, but the details aren't up to him. He’d just footed the bill. Gladly. He’s secretly planning to buy them a house if they’ll accept. 

“I’ve been wanting to ask you something,” Olivia says with a gravity that cools the air. “Why’d you marry Mom?”

“Because she asked and she paid my way through college.”

The truth leaves Olivia wincing as if he’d punched her. She nods, digesting the hard-swallowed pill. “You never wanted kids, did you?”

“Don’t answer that.” Elio stills Oliver’s loose tongue with a hand on his shoulder. 

All dressed up like a princess, Olivia blinks and awaits a reply.

*

After Elio, Oliver didn’t return to his apartment. He wandered like a ghost with no anchor point. The first night, he sat at a bus stop, watching the snow gather around his sneakers, shivering to the bone, teeth clattering, empty stomach threatening to expel its slimy contents.

Around dawn, it occurred to him that if he didn’t warm up, he’d die. As appealing as the option sounded, death meant never bringing Gideon to justice. If it cost Oliver his life, the man would pay for all the ways he'd hurt Elio. 

With the image of the boy's twisted corpse clouding his mind, Oliver strayed into the nearest restaurant and settled at a corner table. His extremities burned as they thawed. 

The waitress approached but he only stared at the table, throat burning as he rasped, “I don’t have any money. Just cold.”

Anne Dawson was a 32-year-old, twice-divorced waitress who'd married the first time before she finished community college. Her first two husbands were abusers. In comparison, Oliver was the world’s greatest hero. He never raised a hand against her. He never raised his voice. Entire days would pass when he didn’t speak at all. 

Despite her relatively meager earnings, Anne had put away some money and bought herself a little duplex which she refinanced to put Oliver through school. She was dripping with motherly instincts and aspirations, but he made it abundantly clear that he didn’t want children. When she got pregnant anyway, Oliver let her tend to the child and went on tending to his ever-growing business.

He answers his daughter's question with: “I never thought I’d be a good father.”

“You weren’t.”

Oliver nods, letting her words confession sting. “I know.”

Eventually, Anne Dawson Gelding met a man who (according to her) knew how to express his feelings. Oliver's response had been: good riddance.  
Tom Chambers had come into Olivia’s life when she was a pre-teen: history teacher turned step-dad and, as far as Oliver could tell, he’d done the job well. 

“But you’re getting better, old dog.”

With a smile, Oliver concedes, “I’m trying.” 

*

Desert drums and dancing signal Asraf’s entrance. Church organ playing the Bridal March is Oliver's cue. He waits at the back of the church with Olivia’s hand around his arm. The guests rise at her entrance. One hundred and fifty-six heads turn to watch them walk up the aisle. 

Oliver grips the arms of his walker, inhales deeply and then gives little Connor a thumbs up. The kid scurries to their hiding place beneath the last pew. When Oliver’s little co-conspirator brings him the cane , he ruffles the boy's hair and takes the first careful step away from his walker. 

Everyone in the church draws in a collective gasp. 

Elio squeezes Oliver's left arm. Olivia squeezes the right. He leans heavily on his cane.

“You’re sure?”

One foot in front of the other. Ignoring people’s expressions. Ignoring the nagging voice of Natia in his mind. Who was she to say whether he was ready?

One foot in front of the other in front of of the other, slow and steady like clockwork - 

until the left refuses to lift. 

One overtaxed strip of muscle in his calf bunches up but does not release. Oliver’s foot shuffles rather than rises and he begins leaning like the Tower of Piza. For such a large man the distant tiles on the church floors rushing up to meet his horrified face in slow motion.

No one in the church breathes. Olivia clutches one arm and Elio grips the other, but Oliver’s weight is too much for a woman and a mirage.  
This is happening. He is going to sprawl on the floor on his daughter’s wedding. No rewind.

Then, all of a sudden, inexplicably, Oliver is not falling. He’s not floating either, but he’s stable. Held aloft by strong hands at his left. Hands more sure than Elio’s imaginary help had been. 

Chambers. 

Anne sures up Olivia’s side. Little Connor leans against Oliver's leg.  
He won't fall if none of them move, but there is no way in hell he’s going to make it to the altar.

As if this was all planned and rehearsed, Ashraf claps his hands and begins a progression down the aisle. Desert drummers parade toward them with the pastor in tow.

*

“You know, you have a lot of nerve.” 

As usual, Anne seems oblivious that she’s a foot shorter than her ex-husband. Not for the first time, she waggles a finger in his face. 

“This was Olivia’s day and you just had to have the spotlight with that stunt. Sometimes, I honestly—”

Before Oliver can conjure a self-defense, there’s a hand on his back.

“It wasn’t like that, Mom,” Liv says with a broad smile. “I thought it was incredibly brave.”

Anne sucks her teeth, rolls her eyes, and flounces away. Oliver bares his teeth in the universal expression for “yikes” and his daughter covers her laugh. In the glow of their tiny conspiracy, she hands him an envelope.

“What’s this?”

“Why don't you open it?”

“That depends.” There can’t be more than a single page inside, but Liv’s seriousness is foreboding.

“I thought that, maybe, this would bring you some peace.”

To humor his child, Oliver removes, unfolds, and scans the paper. He nods and thanks her. She replies with a hug and then, as if she hasn't shattered his inner world, dances off to find her husband in the crowd.

Most of the evening, Oliver sits at his place of honor: a seat at the long table overlooking the dancefloor and the DJ’s stand. It’s a good spot to for the waitstaff to notice him raising his hand for another, another, and then another champagne. 

Still, when the time comes to give his speech, all the alcohol hasn't steeled his legs for the duty. He stands, no problem. That task has become easy. He clanks the glass with his fork, a bit too loudly, but without breaking it. That's something.

When everyone is silent, Oliver clears his throat. Expectant faces wait for the three pages of banalities he’s spent the last month piecing together. No hilarious memories. No cute anecdotes. 

“As you all know, I’m Olivia’s father.”

With another quiet cough he puts down his well-practiced speech.  
“What you don’t know is that I’m awful at this sort of thing. Olivia, I’m proud of you. I think the only one who could have chosen more wisely than you have is Ash. Congratulations to you both. What I’m going to do now is turn it over to your other dad.”

Sitting is a bit more complicated. It takes a bit of calculation and care to land without dropping himself in his chair. As he does so, Chambers takes a moment to collect himself. Maybe it was an asshole move, throwing the guy to the lions. Liv deliberatly gave the task of father’s speech to Oliver, but it’s an honor he didn’t earn. 

As expected and without preparation, that softie, Chambers gets the room teared up and earns every second of the thundering applause his speech commands. At the end of it, even Oliver is smiling in warm contentment. It could be the cumulative effect of his many glasses of champagne or the way Elio has been standing behind his chair the whole time, massaging his shoulders. Every now and again, he tugs Oliver’s earlobe or presses his mouth to his temple, suggesting they find a closet.

All in all, it’s a good wedding. 

* 

Oliver rereads the letter, folds and slides it back into his inner jacket pocket. It hasn’t left his possession since Liv handed it to him at the wedding. He hasn’t figured out what he’s supposed to do with this information. At the moment, there are other fish in the pan.

"Is this a mistake?" He asks.

Elio responds, "You said you would."

"That doesn’t make it a good idea. I could just say I’m tired."

"What are the alternatives?"

"Rewatch Last Kingdom."

"How about we go for an hour," Elio says with his hand on Oliver's knee. "You say you’re tired and rewatch when we get back?"

"Genius."

Oliver thanks the Uber driver and relies heavily on his cane to walk up to the front door.   
It's not too late to ditch.  
Then, the door opens and he pulls a $500 bottle of wine from his messenger bag.

"It was nice of you all to invite me. "

"Of course." Chambers raises a brow at the gift and makes space for Oliver to enter.

Behind him, the devil is releasing a legion of flying monkeys. At least tha's how it sounds with twenty unrestrained 4-year olds chasing each other around the house.

All his life, Oliver avoided kid birthdays with legitimate work excuses. Privately, he pledges to attend every single one of Connor's - as long as the kid invites him. Iif Liv and Ash have children, he'll be present at those, too. A grandpa. Look at that.

It doesn’t make up for the past. It holds the chance of defining the future.

Chambers calls Connor to welcome his guest.   
Oliver draws another, more appropriate gift from his messenger bag:  
a desktop easel that uses kinetic sand and magnets and something else. The woman at the toy store said kids love it. 

"Thanks, Oliver." Connor hugs his knee and runs off.

Anne sneaks up on Oliver's left, slips a hand around his elbow and accompanies him to the side of an attractive woman who Oliver would rather toss out of the window than make small talk with. 

"Jen owns Connor’s preschool," Anne handles the introductions. 

Jen seems to approve despite Oliver's cane. He has put on a good deal of muscle - not to be vain - in the name of remaining upright. 

Oliver smiles politely while searching the room for any familiar face. Liv and Ash are still on their honeymoon. He's on his own. 

“So, Anne and Tom tell me you —“

Like an angel from Heaven, Connor pulls a friend in front of Oliver and they both stare up as if he were a redwood tree. 

“Told you.”

Technically, Oliver is not supposed to do this, but he hands the woman his cane and lifts the kid until his head touches the ceiling. Connor laughs. Chambers rushes over and takes his child from Oliver's hands. It's fair fear.

The lady tries to revive the conversation, but when Anne slips into the kitchen, Oliver excuses himself. He stands at the door until she turns around with a tray of cookies and nearly drops them from surprise. 

"Sorry," Oliver says and then quickly adds, "But I don’t appreciate the double-cross.”

“The what? Oh, Jennifer. She’s lovely. One of these go getters. I thought you’d be impressed by—“

“No. Thank you… really. I mean… Thank you. For everything, Anne. Seriously.”

The words seem to bounce off her confused face, so Oliver takes the tray from her hands and places it on the counter. Then, he hooks his cane oer the handle of a drawer and wraps his ex-wife in a giant bear squeeze. 

It's a long moment before she stiffly raises her hands to his back. 

“I do appreciate it.”

The door swings open behind Oliver's back. Without waiting for the question, he drags Chambers in by his shirt and hugs the hell out of them both. 

Before he lets go, he makes one thing clear. “Don’t try to set me up. I’m perfectly happy on my own.”

“What if we get you a cat, or something?” Anne suggests.

“I’m fine.”

Elio checks his wrist, as if he were wearing a watch. Oliver pats Chambers shoulder harder than necessary and then, makes a production out of a yawn.


	24. Chapter 24

"My God, you’re good at that."

Elio smiles and wipes the trail of cum and spit from his chin with the back of his hand. "It’s not natural for you to prefer my company to that chick."

"Shut up." Oliver cleans his hand on a rag he'd set aside for the purpose.

"You know you’re talking to yourself."

"Like I said, shut up."

Oliver crosses his ankles on the coffee table and uses the remote to confirm that there's nothing worth watching. Sitting next to Elio in the dark, by the flickering light of the television, he rereads Olivia's letter.

"You're going to wear out that piece of paper," Elio says curls an arm around Oliver's, folding his feet up on the sofa. It's cozy. Why ever leave?

_Dear Daddy,_  
_When you woke up screaming for your friend, I have to admit that I was jealous that anyone ever had that much of your attention and affection._

_But the more you've explain, I think I understand how hard it must have been to lose someone you cared that much about. It's helped me to understand you and how hard it's been to trust the world. How hard to care about someone again._

_So, Ash and I decided to find Elio Perlman’s gravestone. We hope this brings you more peace than pain._

_Love,_  
_Liv_

_300 S High St_  
_Baltimore, MD 21202_

“She means well,” Elio says, softly.

He sounds sleepy, but Oliver is bright awake.

He puts down the paper and stares at the TV, seeing nothing but moving shadows and shapes.

In a fitful decision, Oliver showers, shaves, and dresses in black jeans and a black t-shirt under a sleek black blazer. Black Chucks, in Elio's honor. Before he leaves his apartment, he selects a single flower from the vase on his kitchen table. Marit, the housekeeper, insists on refreshing them every week. She says everyone ought to have some living in their home. Since Oliver is certain he’d just kill plants, Marit always brings him a bouquet.

He would have taken all the flowers but Elio wouldn’t want that.

Due to his history of seizures, Oliver will never drive again. Hiring an Uber frees him to watch the suburban lights fade into brakelights under the shadows of trees on the highway. Soon, Baltimore's nighttime cityscape comes into view. Seedy and seated by its harbor, the town welcomes all who aren't afraid of dirty.

Oliver thanks his driver and clacks along on three legs with Elio at his side: perpetually young, indescribably beautifully, and uncharacteristically silent.

The place is packed but Oliver agrees to wait for a booth. Once seated, he orders a Studer Swiss.

He can’t see the stage. In a way, that makes the music better. A jazz trio. Not that Oliver knows the first thing about jazz or music at all, but it's lively and smart. Sophisticated. Once he gives up trying to understand, admiration settles in.

Twenty minutes after he arrives, the musicians take a break.

Oliver's glass is empty. It's kismet: the right time to leave.

He came. He saw. He knows. And it is more peace than pain. It's bewilderment, but Olivia did good.

Oliver stands, supports himself with both hands on his cane and breathes in this shift in reality.

Elio Perlman, alive and in his ever-pale flesh, is sitting side-saddle on the piano bench, doing something on his cellphone. Texting someone? Popping bubbles?

Crossing the room to say hello feels almost insurmountable - like crossing the river Styx into the land of the dead.  
Before Olivia's research revealed this place, Elio was dead. For twenty-nine years, Elio has rested tumultuously in the deep recess of Oliver’s memory. As Dr. Carver would put it, this moment is scrambling Oliver’s eggs.

Yet, walking away would be unbearable in a different way. What's the worst that could happen? Elio doesn’t recognize him. Or hates him. Both are likely.

If Oliver had known. Or if he’d had the strength and courage to bring Gideon to justice… how would his entire life have been different? It’s a lot to process.

“So, what are you going to do?” Elio asks.

Young Elio. The apparition. The figment of Oliver’s wild and wistful imagination. The boy who died, but lives.

Oliver regards the path to the door. Easier to run.

He leaves his flower on the table and slowly makes his way through the crowded space. The place bustles and buzzes. Warm with the scent of alcohol and sweat. Glasses clank. Elegant women leaning on men’s arms, whispering secrets and lies.

Other than the men on stage, Oliver is one of the oldest in the place. The only one with a cane. He clutches the amber-inlaid handle and continues the long march to the piano.

His voice would be useless. Rather than try to speak, he places a crisp hundred-dollar bill into the oversized martini glass on the piano. Is Elio playing for tips? Can he survive on this gig alone?

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it,” the pianoman says without looking up from his phone.

Oliver breathes in the sound of his voice, familiar, but changed. Lower, with more gravel.

“You got a request or something?”

Slowly, Elio’s eyes travel up, widening as they reach Oliver's view. "Well, Hell." The skin around them crinkles when he smiles. "Hey, handsome.”

Oliver lowers his warming face. His legs are sturdy and still they might give way when Elio stands and hugs him. Holds him long and close. Solid. Real. Alive.

When the embrace is over, young Elio stands beside himself and grins. “Dude, I’m still hot.”

Oliver nods in agreement.

“You know what’s crazy,” Elio, the elder, says smiling. “I’ve been dreaming about you nonstop for the last year.”

***

"You know what, it’s loud as hell in here. Let’s go out on the terrace."

Oliver follows, still searching for his voice, grasping for a single adequate word. What do you say when a man you thought dead for thirty years has been playing piano in a jazz cantina 38 miles from your house? The fresh, cool air is good. Perhaps some oxygen will knock his brain into gear.

Elio points at the cane. "So, what happened there?" 

Oliver shakes his head as if a 7-year sleep and another year of intense physical rehabilitation are no big deal. Oliver is still in PT twice a week with aspirations of losing the damn cane. Compared to Elio’s New Testament feat, Oliver’s ordeal pales. 

He manages, “How?" 

"What do you mean?"

"The last time I saw you--"

"Right. That… That asshole Gideon. Got me here…" Elio points to a space between his shoulder and his heart. "Can't hold a guitar for shit. Joint's all busted. But that was a long time ago. I don’t even think about it anymore."

If only Oliver could say the same.

"Probably the best damn thing ever happened to me," Elio adds. "Woke up in the hospital. Met this nurse… fucking gorgeous.”

Three decades ago, Elio had used those exact words to describe Oliver. It's misplaced jealousy. Oliver swallows the sting and listens.

“You know anything about EST? She harped on me for about ten years before I went and checked it out.”

Oliver silently wraps his thoughts around the years Elio spent with that nurse. Did they overlap the years he spent with Anne? Were they wasted years? Lost, squandered, irretrievable years?

“Wild shit," Elio continues. "Totally flipped my script. I stopped blaming my mother for my choices. Realized I wanted to die. I was waiting for someone to kill me because I was too chickenshit to do it myself. Anyway…Like I said, long time ago. What about you? You get that degree? You got family? Kids?”

“One. A daughter. She’s great, no thanks to me.”

“You’re lucky. I got four fucking sons, man. Each one a bigger knucklehead than the last.”

“So, you’re married.” The words stab Oliver's throat.

The longing makes no sense. There are three decades of change between them. Oliver is pining over a past that never happened.

“No way, man," Elio laughs at the idea of himself married. "She tried. They all did. Four kids, three mothers. Marriage is not my schtick."

Oliver nods unable to categorize his emotion at that revelation.

"Did find my mother, though. She’s still using. Nothing I can do about that.” Elio shrugs and takes a drag from his smoke.

Silence in the cold is three times as loud. They stand puffing out smoke and steam, filling up the moment with thoughtful nodding. 

"You know, you couldn’t have saved me," Elio says. "Not in the mindset I was in back then. I would have just been an anchor around your neck."

That had been clear then. Oliver had prepared himself to sink. 

"And when we were little kids... That wasn’t your battle. You know?"

Young Elio chimes in, "I could have told you that."

Older Elio searches the open air. “What do you keep looking at, Oliver? Is something up with your eyes?”

"Do you want to tell him you're crazy, or should I?" 

"No. I... You haven’t changed much,” Oliver answers. "I mean, you have and you haven’t."

"Yeah, it is crazy seeing you, too.” Elio glances at his watch. “Time to get back to the office. Stick around, if you can.”

Oliver nearly lets him walk away and then calls out.

Elio turns and Oliver tries to downplay his limp as he splits the space between them. He spits out the words before they become glued to the back of his tongue. “I… would you like to go for dinner sometime?”

Elio lets loose a sly smile. “After all this time, are you asking me out?” 

“No, I… I don’t know.”

“Ask me out, Oliver.”

Oliver lowers his eyes, allowing amusement and shock and nameless, ageless emotions to kick up a hot brew in his chest. “Elio, would you —?”

“Yeah. Of course, man. Thai tomorrow. On me.” Elio raises a finger. “One condition.”

It requires restraint not to say, ‘anything.’

But he would - what wouldn't Oliver do for a night of this inexplicable magnetism - the urge to be closer, to know his thoughts, to fall asleep inside of him? Watches Elio fingers as he types his phone number into the contacts on Oliver's phone. Then, he lays down his law.out his condition:

“We never met. Our history and all that bullshit, it's done,” Elio says. “We’re just a couple of guys seeing if there’s anything good between us.”

“Deal.”

It's a hasty concession. Who knows whether Oliver can live up to it? Goodness knows he's lugged that baggage around long enough to let it go.

The younger Elio claps him on the shoulder as the older, the real, living, smoking, mercilessly smirking man walks backward into the club.

From the terrace, the first piano notes are distant, but clear. The melody trickles down the keys and blends with the bass in the middle. It's a familiar tune. One Elio pulled from thin air when they were children. He'd called it Oliver's Song.

This would be a good time to leave. It would look cool and composed to disappear. Stay mysterious. Oliver could call tomorrow or wait a couple of days. Send a text. Not look to eager.

Or he could choose a better seat - one where he can see the stage - and have another drink. He could relax and revel in the music, in the view, and his prospects. Thai food sounds pretty damn good. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so much for reading and for your comments.  
> You've added to the joy of writing more than I can say.  
> Take good care,  
> B
> 
> Oh yeah, and if you have time, check out the Joni Mitchell song that partly inspired the fic. The woman is genius.  
> https://youtu.be/gKak0adMCkU


End file.
